


The Bee and the Wolves

by osmiaavosetta



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Civil War, Companions, Drinking & Talking, Elder Scrolls Gods - Religion & Symbolism, Elder Scrolls Lore, F/M, Fluff, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Non-Canon Timelines, Polyamory, Unconventional Families, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 136,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmiaavosetta/pseuds/osmiaavosetta
Summary: Miel Guillaume gave up a holy order in High Rock for the life of a common legionnaire. When the Stormcloak rebellion broke out in Skyrim, her transfer was a chance to get a change of scene and reminisce about her childhood in Whiterun. The most she expected was guard duty, chasing rustlers away from goats and chickens in some little hamlet. She certainly didn't expect to be the mythic Dragonborn, become a foster mother, or have curious feelings about the twins of Jorrvaskr. Farkas and Vilkas find the "Little Bee" they used to play with is just as fun to tease. But, with the conflict growing, Miel's strange destiny looming, and Hircine's gift in the mix, they wonder if there's any room left for something more.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Vilkas
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in many, many years, so it's been fun working out these rusty writing joints. Most of the violence is to do with war/combat. Also, as werewolves, Farkas and Vilkas have some hungry thoughts.  
> \--
> 
> 17 Sept 20 Update:
> 
> I've tried for this story to be lore-consistent, if not necessarily canon-consistent. As far as canon goes, I've tweaked the timelines and resolutions of the main, Civil War, and Companions questlines quite a bit. For things to do with the gods and power, I like to start with the lore and then explore from there, but still in a way that makes sense with that lore. For example, Hircine does something later in this story that doesn't happen in the game, but it's still (I hope) in keeping with the canon Hircine that we know.

Miel was born in Whiterun to Agda, a fair Nord mother, and Guillame, a dark Breton father. Her mother was a healer at the Temple of Kynareth at the time. Her father was a legionnaire. At the time of her birth, Farkas and Vilkas had been four, and it was the middle of the Great War. Ulfric Stormcloak was still a young man and had yet to take the Reach, but Jergen had been long gone.

Miel's mother had more than enough work to do, though the pay was humble. The little family lived simply and, for the most part, happily, despite Guillame's absence. Agda did her work outside in the temple garden. One of the acolytes remarked that, swaddled among the flowers, Miel looked like a little bee. The nickname stuck to her even as she grew to chase after the other children in Whiterun, hoping to join their games.

Of all the children she tailed, she stuck closest to the young twins at Jorrvaskr, as well as their fellows Avulstein Gray-Mane, Idolaf Battle-Born, and Idolaf's cousin Alfhild. Some tutted that Miel needed to play with more girls, but Agda paid them no mind. One day, she had let the boys borrow Miel so that they might have a pretend hostage to fight over, but they were as gentle as puppies with her. From then on, they would meet under the Gildergreen and ask her to let Little Bee come and play.

Because Farkas and Vilkas were used to the women Companions, they thought nothing of playing at swords with Miel, too, and so they gave her a first taste of fighting. And when they reached nine or ten years of age and decided that they didn't want to play with girls anymore, they gave Miel her first heartbreak, too.

Not long after that, Guillame sent for Agda and Miel to live with him in High Rock. He had received a more permanent posting as a guard captain in Camlorn, and it was time for the family to be together again. One day, Farkas went to the Gildergreen to apologize to Miel for telling her to buzz off, but she was already gone.

In High Rock, Agda ran a small inn while Guillame continued to work for the Legion. Miel enjoyed singing songs for the patrons before she was sent off to bed with her little fists full of coins and sweets.

When she was 12, Miel, born under the sign of the Lady, was scouted by priestesses of Dibella and taken to study at the temple. Miel continued as an acolyte there for a few years after she came of age. She left at 20 after a disagreement with a fellow acolyte over a congregant and then, at Guillame's suggestion, joined the Legion as a bard.

She thus learned to use the sword and found she liked fighting best with one in her left and a dagger in her right, though the most work she got as a soldier in peacetime was escorting nobles, guarding little hamlets, and drumming during parades. She met conjurers, learned a few tricks, and began to entertain daydreams of becoming a spellsword, skirmishing with an atronach at her side.

When Miel was in her 27th year, Agda passed of an illness. Neither Bee nor her father wanted to retire early to an innkeeper's life, especially not in the inn it seemed only Agda herself could brighten. So, Guillame sold the inn and gave his daughter his blessing to seek her fortune elsewhere. When the Stormcloak rebellion broke out a year later, she decided to return to Skyrim for the first time since her childhood.

* * *

  
Farkas first saw her coming down the hill from Riverwood as he, Ria, and Aela put down a giant that was menacing the Pelagia Farm. He saw what looked like a Legion scout running as fast as she could toward them and wondered vaguely what it was about.

Aela called out to the scout. "It's taken care of, no thanks to you."

Ria gave Farkas a confused look. The scout had barely any time to nock an arrow or draw a blade before Farkas got in the final blow. But, it had been a tricky fight, so Aela was venting to this hapless stranger.

"You didn't look like you needed help," the scout said warily, trying to step away.

Farkas felt as though lightning flashed. He took a better look at the scout as Aela continued scolding. She was a small woman, but not slight — just the right build for a scout or a skirmisher. He noted that she carried no shield, but a sword and a dagger, slung for a left-handed draw. He could see dark hair and eyes under the helmet, with a scar suggesting she had almost lost one of them in a fight. Her skin was browned, likely from patrols in the sun, and her face was flushed from running. He could hear her breathing, her heart pounding. She could have been Imperial, Breton, even Nord, or —

"Farkas?" she said suddenly.

He blinked and saw it. "Bee? Little Bee, is that you?"

She laughed, and they clasped one another's forearms in greeting, both being a little slow to let go. He introduced her to his shield-sisters. "Bee used to live in Whiterun. Vilkas and I used to play with her when we were whelps, until she moved away."

She nodded at the women. Aela acknowledged out of politeness. "My proper name's Miel Guillaume. I've been in High Rock, but I've come back now." She glanced nervously toward the city walls. "Excuse me, but I have to get a message to the Jarl."

"Just come back and already on your way to the Cloud District, well, well," Farkas teased. "No time for your old playmate."

Bee had begun to walk away, but she couldn't help laughing nervously. "Sorry. Maybe we can catch up after I've given the message."

"All right. I'll be by the Gildergreen, like old times."

She waved and began to run again.

"You look strong!" Farkas shouted after her. "Come join the Companions!"

Aela scoffed as they began making their own way back into Whiterun. "'You look strong'? Icebrain. Must you flirt with every new face in the city?" she said, playfully pushing him by the side of his head.

Farkas grinned. "She's not new. I told you, I knew her when we were kids. And, you know, I like to be warm and welcoming."

"She's just more prey for you to chase."

Farkas chuckled but didn't say anything. He thought of the color in her cheeks and the sound of her catching her breath from her run. The fact that she was someone he knew, returning from far away, only added a taste of mystery. Suddenly, the evening was looking more promising than another night at the table with Vignar's old stories.

* * *

  
Bee felt her heart pounding, but it could have been from all the running. She had wondered whether she'd see her old friends when she returned to Whiterun, but she hadn't imagined the reunion to be anything like this. Running from a dragon attack in someone else's armor, after nearly getting her head chopped off — she hadn't expected to run right into Farkas, or that he'd be so warm.

She felt even more overwhelmed when the guards let her through the city gates. The blacksmith, the market, the sounds, the streets — she longed to take in everything and see if it was just as she remembered, but her errand awaited completion. Still, she felt a pang when she passed under the branches of the old Gildergreen, not green at all and with branches bare.

The sun was setting when she reemerged from Dragonsreach, and she took a moment to enjoy the view of the city. When she thought of home, it was her mother's inn outside Camlorn, but Bee felt a thrill at seeing the place where she was born. She was surprised at how much she could remember. She couldn't bear the thought of a dragon coming to raze it. She would get this self-inflated court wizard his stone if it meant being of some help against such an event.

As she made her way down the steps, she looked to the Gildergreen and saw two men standing there. One was Farkas, and the other was a blond Nord in legionnaire's armor.

"Bee!" Farkas called. "How was Dragonsreach? You remember Idolaf, I hope?"

They grasped arms politely, and Idolaf smiled down at her. "Alfhild sends her regards, but she's tending to Mother Bergritte. Nice armor," he said. "Guess I don't really need to ask you Gray-Mane or Battle-Born."

"What?"

Farkas laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't get him started. Come on. You must be hungry, or thirsty, at least. And we're finally old enough for pints at the Bannered Mare."

Bee had half her mind on dragons, but she found it hard to ignore his hand, which stayed there as he steered her around the tree and toward the old inn. She also tried to ignore how the light caught his face as the sky darkened and the fires inside the houses glowed brighter. When she first set out for Skyrim, she had wondered wistfully, but vaguely, what the objects of six-year-old Miel's infatuations were up to now. It was quite another thing to walk so close to one of them, now a warrior in his prime who regarded her with such a wolfish grin. His every muscle seemed wound to pounce.

She could almost hear her mother calling, "Be careful, dear heart! Don't let those two play too rough. And if one of them hits you, you hit back!"

"I tried to get all the lads, but Vilkas isn't back from the job yet, and Avulstein isn't talking to Idolaf here," Farkas was saying. "If Vilkas gets back in time, though, I told the guard in the square to send him here."

He had heard her heart quicken when he'd put his hand on her shoulder. But as he settled across her at a table in the Mare, he caught a curious gleam in her eye. She was probably on to him, he thought. That only made things more fun.

Idolaf came with the pints, and an unfamiliar Redguard barmaid followed with bread and bowls of stew. "So, what brings you home to Whiterun, Little Bee?" Idolaf asked. "Still on the little side, I see."

She laughed. She told them then about Agda's passing and how she had asked for a transfer, when the Empire began sending troops over to deal with Ulfric's rebellion. "I don't feel too good about brothers fighting brothers, but it was a chance to come back and see Mama's homeland, honor her memory, and maybe see if Skyrim is the place for me. Even if I get no more action than chasing some wolves off a chicken farm, it will at least be a change of scene."

"Plenty of action to be had around here," Farkas said.

Idolaf's eyes narrowed. He knew his friend too well. But, he only said, "Sorry, Miel. Only difference is that the farms here are a little colder, and the chickens, maybe a little too precious. If things with Ulfric's boys keep heating up, though, or if these dragons get to be a problem, you'll be on the field of battle soon enough."

"Or, you could join the Companions," Farkas suggested again. "Once you pass the trial and you train with us a bit, you'll only have to take the jobs you want. I'm sure we'd get to take down a dragon or two. No orders or uniforms. Live a free woman. Come and go as you please. We've got the beds to spare."

At the mention of dragons, her face had dropped briefly, and at the mention of beds, he thought he had seen an eyebrow twitch, but her smile now was difficult to read. She shook her head.

"I've got this job for the Jarl now. And if I don't report to Castle Dour by the end of next week, I'll be in trouble."

Farkas shrugged and leaned back. "All right. Come to Jorrvaskr if things don't work out, though. I'll know what to do with you."

Idolaf snorted. But, if Bee caught Farkas's meaning, she gave no sign. She turned to her comrade in arms and asked him how Whiterun had been since she left. Idolaf told her that it was mostly the same, though her old house had been torn down and replaced by another. A chandler and his wife lived there now. Meanwhile, the Jarl had wed and had the bunch of brats she must have met in the keep, then was widowed a few years ago. Idolaf himself had married Alfhild, and they had a son, Lars.

"Oh, I think I saw him on my way up to the keep. Poor boy, I think a girl was shaking him down for his last septim."

Idolaf sighed. "I'm trying to toughen him up, but they're at the age where the girls are taller than the boys; he's too afraid to stand up to her yet. Maybe he'll be able to hold his own in another year or two."

Just then, a shadow fell across the table. Everyone stood, and Vilkas was greeted by his brother and Idolaf. "What's going on? Are we celebrating something? And who is this?" He offered his arm for the handshake, she took it, and then they all sat down again.

Farkas was amused at her look of shock. "Do you remember that little girl we nearly buried alive near the northern wall?"

"Yes, Commander Caius was just Captain Caius then, and he nearly gave us a thrashing. Why?"

Bee chuckled at the memory as Vilkas took a moment to study her face.

"By Ysmir! Is that you, Miel? Well, how are you? How's your mother?"

Farkas and Idolaf winced. Vilkas, seeing their reaction, quickly apologized.

"It's all right," she said. "It's been more than a year, though I still miss her. She had always hoped to return to Skyrim one day, even if only to visit, but just never found the time. Tomorrow, I'll go to the temple to pay respects before I head back to Riverwood."

"What's in Riverwood?" Vilkas asked.

As she recounted what she had told Farkas and Idolaf earlier — she had been sent on an errand to the Jarl and was now being sent back on another one — Vilkas studied Miel. She was a bit more well-spoken than a common footsoldier. She mentioned that she had joined the Legion as a bard, but she had said nothing of colleges or guilds. Her armor didn't look like it fit properly. Though that was common among soldiers in an army struggling to supply everyone adequately, if she had been serving in High Rock during peacetime for as long as she'd said, she would have made adjustments by now. She seemed unsettled about something that she wasn't telling them.

"Why you?" he asked suddenly. "Why would the Jarl send you after having just met you? He has housecarls to spare; I'm sure one of them could handle a few draugr."

Miel bit the inside of her cheek. She hadn't wanted to talk about this; she was still trying to make sense of it herself.

"I suppose it's easier for him to spare one of the Empire's soldiers instead of one of his own," she tried.

Now, Idolaf was confused. "He doesn't have command of you, though. He hasn't even declared his allegiances yet. Who's your superior officer?"

"I don't know yet. I haven't reported to Castle Dour. Maybe he wanted someone who's not quite on the books yet."

Farkas furrowed his brow. "He could have hired us, then. We've gotten jobs from Jarls before."

"Miel," Vilkas asked, "how did you end up speaking to the Jarl in the first place? Vignar says he wasn't letting anyone in today after the news from Helgen."

She sighed. There was no avoiding it now. "They let me in," she said, "because I've come from Helgen."

There was a collective gasp, and Miel felt the story begin to spill out of her.

"My date to report to Castle Dour isn't for another week or so. I crossed the border in my civilian clothes. I thought I'd take the time to see the province on my own for a bit, before it was time to fall in again. But, some brigands robbed me of all my things — papers, armor, everything — they outnumbered me. And then, the soldiers came, I couldn't prove who I was, and I was off to the block."

"The block?" Idolaf cried. "For not having papers?"

Miel shook her head, angered by the memory. "The Legate on duty didn't care. I think they were riled up because they'd caught Ulfric. Everyone who'd wronged them in their eyes, from Stormcloak to petty horse thief to me, was going to die that day." She swallowed. "Then, the dragon came."

She told them of its fiery breath, its spiky black hide, its long talons, and the way the tower wall had crumbled like a pastry. She described how she had tailed a soldier named Hadvar and how they'd had to fight their way underground to escape, grabbing what gear she could use as she went. She told them of resting only briefly in Riverwood, where the local smith and his family had implored her to run to Balgruuf for aid.

"That's when I saw you!" Farkas said.

"Yes!" she replied. "To be honest, I barely saw you all and the giant. I just wanted to put as much distance between me and Helgen as possible."

She sighed. "But, now, I'm the only one the Jarl knows who knows anything about dealing with dragons — which is barely anything, mind you, just: don't stand too long in front of its mouth, try not to die, and run like the daedra want you," she said, counting on her fingers. "And so, he's asked me to help his mage with this."

The lads let her take a sip of mead. All thoughts of flirting had fled Farkas's mind as he hung on her every word. Vilkas, on the other hand, felt a strange new interest growing as she spoke. He noticed the way she knitted her brows as she considered her words, as well as the unusually courtly way her hands moved through the air as she spoke. They were not some affectation, but movements of habit. Perhaps she had been some noble's bard, then, before getting a taste for fighting.

"I'm not even sure why I'm doing it now," she was saying. "I suppose it's just training, you know? Someone in charge tells you to do something, and you do it. But, after this, that's it. I'll need to excuse myself and head up to Solitude."

Idolaf patted her on the back. "It sounds like you've had quite the ordeal. You must be exhausted. Would you like us to leave you to get some rest here?"

Bee smiled gratefully. Now that Idolaf had mentioned it, she felt expended by the day's events. "If you don't mind," she said. "But, you know, I'm so glad to see you all here. I couldn't have expected a better homecoming, given the circumstances."

They all shook hands again, and above her protests, the lads divided the cost of the evening amongst themselves before bidding her good night. Farkas invited her to take a peek at Jorrvaskr when she came back with the stone. Idolaf parted from them at the door, and the twins made their own way up to their hall.

"Quite a tale, eh?" Farkas said, throwing an arm over his brother's shoulder. "Who'd have thought Little Bee would come back and turn out like that?"

Vilkas sneered. The dark didn't stop him from seeing the look of intrigue unfolding on his brother's face. "Typical of you, Farkas," he said.

Still, he couldn't help reflecting on the evening himself. He tried to unify his impressions of her — the tag-along little whelp who had tailed him and his friends when they were younger, and this woman soldier who seemed to hold more secrets than she had shared with them that night. She wasn't bad to look at, either, he had to admit.

"Put it from your mind," he said to himself as much as to his brother. His old bitterness began to creep into his voice. "It was nice catching up, but she belongs to the Legion, and we don't know where they'll post her after this. We probably won't see her much until the war is over, and who knows when that will be, or even if she'll see it happen?"

Farkas looked at his brother in shock. "That's cold, even from you," he said.

Vilkas didn't answer, and they went into their rooms.

* * *

  
Late the following afternoon, after training, they were sitting on the Jorrvaskr porch when a commotion rose up from the southwestern part of the city. Torvar burst through the doors. "There's a dragon! A dragon's attacking the Western Watchtower!"

At that, the remaining Companions rose and ran for the city gate. Guards were thronging the tops of the walls, and common folk were clamoring for a view.

"Everyone, get back to your posts, and go back to your homes!" Caius bellowed. "Irileth and the guards are handling it! No one is leaving the city until it's safe!"

Farkas growled in protest, but the Companions and the city guard had a touchy relationship, and Kodlak had warned them all against upsetting it.

"Come on," Vilkas murmured. "If we get up on a roof in the Wind District, we'll be able to see."

The brothers scrambled to the top of Carlotta Valentia's house. Higher up the hill, they could see Idolaf and Avulstein perched atop their clans' homes, too. Together, they squinted out over the plains of the hold. Sure enough, there was Irileth and a small contingent of Whiterun guards, attempting to swarm a great, scaly beast.

"Gods above, it's like the tales," Farkas whispered.

It seemed the entire city fell silent as the far-off blades flashed and clanged in the late sun, and the dragon's roars echoed up to the walls. The brothers could smell ancient, unfamiliar blood on the wind. Vilkas felt his mouth begin to water, and he had to fight every urge to change form. Farkas grasped his arm, feeling it, too. Perhaps it was just as well that they weren't out there right now. There were too many people watching.

There was a figure in faded red darting in and out among the fighters and weaving under the dragon's wings — a legionnaire, probably on their way elsewhere when the dragon attacked. It was as though they were trying to provoke the monster and draw its attention away from the others. Twice, the dragon turned its head from devouring a guard at the last moment, to seek out the insect that was the source of these stings. It reminded the twins of —

"Is that — " Vilkas began.

Farkas laughed and swore in disbelief.

Suddenly, it seemed the dragon would have her in its teeth. Her dagger flashed out at the snout, and then she pulled herself onto the face and plunged her sword between the eyes.

The dragon fell still.

A roar rose up from the walls as the watchers realized what she had done. The twins cheered along and watched as the fighting party celebrated amongst themselves as well. Guards began to talk of hauling the body into the city so that they could look at the dragon's bones.

Then, they grew silent again as the dragon's body began to glow. Its hide flaked off as though it were burning paper, and there was a rush of wind toward the fighters as all dragon flesh disappeared, leaving the skeleton clean. There was a great shout, and the cluster of guards at the tower staggered.

"By Ysmir," a guard said. "The soul has gone. There's a Dragonborn among them!"

"The Thu'um!" another hissed. "They summon the Thu'um!"

More noise went up from the crowd, murmuring and talking excitedly to one another this time as the stories came forth from Vilkas's memory. Even as he wondered which of the fighters might wield this power, he felt he already knew the answer.

The red soldier broke away from the group and began running back toward Whiterun. Everyone watched as the figure drew close. Then, there was a shattering sound, as though thunder was coming down from the sky, the earth was breaking open, and a chorus of voices was rolling down from the Throat of the World.

People began to back away from the gate. Some of Caius's entreaties for everyone to resume their positions were heeded this time.

"What's going on?" Farkas asked his brother as they slid down the roof.

"I'll explain later," Vilkas said. "Come on." They stood at the arch that divided the Plains from the Wind District to see.

The gates opened, and Miel stepped through. She blinked in surprise at the sight of the crowd. Her uniform wasn't the only red thing about her. Even where they stood, the twins could smell the blood, sweat, and dust of battle clinging to her body. Beneath it all, though, they could tell her face was pale with shock.

She slowly continued forward, and the guards began telling the crowd to give her some air and let her pass. Adrianne Avenicci broke through the line and handed her a cloth. "Here," she said gently.

Bee accepted it wordlessly and wiped her face, then her blades. She absently cast her eyes about for where to put the cloth. Adrianne took it back, assuring her it was all right. "You'd better get up to Danica and the healers, and make sure you're in one piece."

There was a shout. "I'm here!"

The priestess of Kynareth stepped forward and reached for Bee's shoulders. "Let's get you to the temple," she said.

Miel blinked and pushed her hands away. "No, I — sorry, Irileth told me to go straight to the Jarl."

"But, your wounds! And, you're in shock!"

"I have to go."

Danica managed to push a potion into her palm, and Bee drank it down. She grimaced as the alchemy began to do its work, and her own color began to return to her cheeks. Vilkas marveled to himself. Most people took longer to recover from a fight like that, even with the strongest potions. There were soldiers who had not left their beds in the temple for months.

She caught a glimpse of the twins just then, smiled faintly, and offered a shaky wave. Farkas returned it with a grin, and Vilkas nodded. She handed Danica the empty bottle, cast an embarrassed look and a sheepish nod at the crowd, and then took off at a run for Dragonsreach.

Another roar went up as everyone gathered realized all that they had witnessed. Caius gave up and, muttering, went back into the barracks. People began to turn in the direction where she had waved, and the twins, not wanting to be pestered with questions about how they knew this strange soldier, took this as their cue to slip away. As they did so, Hulda declared that the first round of drinks at the Mare would be free tonight. The lads caught sight of Miel disappearing through the keep doors, just as they reached the foot of the steps to Jorrvaskr.

"Hoho, we'll have a much better story than Vignar at the table tonight," Farkas said. "Do you think, if I waited out here and invited her, Miel'd come in and tell it herself?"

"Let her be. She's going to have other things on her mind now." Vilkas swallowed and stopped his brother before they entered the hall. He kept his voice low. "I'm feeling the call of the hunt. That dragon, the blood — I can't stand to be inside right now. Will you come with me?"

"Always, brother," Farkas said, grasping him by the shoulder. "Safer in the pack." He looked around the hall and saw the color of the sky. "It's still too early. Can you wait an hour or two?"

Vilkas felt his spirit straining against his own body. "I'll try. Meet you at the Underforge."

* * *

  
Miel didn't want to sleep in the Bannered Mare again that night. She wanted to stay away from the crowds and not be asked questions to which she herself had few answers. She wasn't quite sure about this Greybeards business, either, but at least it was somewhere to go.

She asked Proventus if she could borrow a few camping supplies so that she could sleep outside the city. He looked at her quizzically, but as the Jarl said to give this stranger whatever she needed, within reason, he sent word to Adrianne to meet her by the stables with provisions. Miel thanked him, exited the keep, and took a different path to the city gate. Before the guards could recognize her, she hopped through a gap in the wall and ran.

Adrianne handed her a new knapsack with a small tent, a bedroll, and some food. Bee thanked her profusely, even more when the smith wouldn't accept payment.

"You did a good thing for the city, today," she said. "Everyone has been worried with this talk of dragons, but at least we now know that we can fight back."

"I didn't do it alone," Bee protested. "I would have died out there without Irileth and her squad. Why aren't they getting gifts and such?"

Adrianne laughed. "Oh, they are. I bet some of them are at the Mare or the Huntsman right now, taking half the credit for this victory. Give them time, and they'll all go back to treating you no better than a common soldier, right down to the insults and impertinent requests."

Bee was reassured. "I'll look forward to it," she said. She thanked the smith again and went off into the night.

She crossed the bridge after Honningbrew Meadery, headed up the road a bit, and then stopped at the foot of a hill that faced the city. She was somewhere between White River Watch and Graywinter Watch, if the guard's directions had been right. As she built a fire, she snacked on some jerky and wondered at everything that had happened, just two days from her return to the province.

"Not at all what I expected, Mama," she whispered. She laughed nervously to herself.

Across the way, her eyes picked out the curve of the upturned ship that made the roof of Jorrvaskr. Light glowed from behind the city wall. She thought she saw a pair of large dogs run out from behind the Battle-Born Farm, but it was too dark to be sure. Her tired mind was probably playing tricks on her.

She thought of the twins then and wondered what they thought of all this dragon business. It was silly, but even with what she had helped do that afternoon, she felt as though she were a child again, longing for the big boys to consider her worthy of play.

She could remember clinging piggyback to Farkas as he ran all round the market till they were dizzy, in some silly quest to make her squeal in hysterical delight. She could remember Vilkas scolding her until she cried because she had snatched some of his pretty marbles without asking. He had relented and let her keep a green one just so she would stop. If she looked in her room at her father's apartment, she could probably still find it among her old keepsakes.

She even remembered them playing at being real Companions with their wooden swords. The boys were in the Circle, and she was a new blood, and she had to listen to them and hit the dummy properly, or she'd never pass her trial. If she took up Farkas's invitation now, that little play might actually take place, and she laughed at the thought.

Miel got into her bedroll and sighed up at Masser and Secunda. They were too beautiful tonight to hide with a tent. She was exhausted, but her thoughts demanded to be teased apart.

When her father told her Skyrim could be a harsher land than most, he had not been exaggerating after all. "You'll be glad if they give you some guard post at Winterhold," Guillaume had said.

"What's in Winterhold?"

"Precisely."

Sure enough, she had come close to death more times in the past few days than in all her years as a footman in High Rock. What she would give now to be minding some miller's stupid chickens, or charming some village children with songs about their faithful friends in the Legion. And yet, here she was, sleeplessly thinking about the lads.

She reached in her pack for her amulet of Dibella, only to remember that it had been stolen at the border, before all this nonsense had started. She hadn't worn it since first joining the Legion, but she had chosen to bring it with her to Skyrim as a remembrance from home. She missed it then.

"Are you cursing me, Milady?" she said aloud. "Is this your way of reminding me that I can never leave your service?"

She slept fitfully, dreaming of massive wolves that were not scared of fire. They came sniffing around her camp, and one bared its long teeth by her face. But, something spooked them, and they went away.


	2. Chapter 2

Miel never did get that guard post in Winterhold. When she came down from High Hrothgar, a courier was waiting for her in Ivarstead with a summons to Castle Dour. They wanted the Dragonborn on active duty, helping to wrest Skyrim back from the Stormcloaks.

"I don't know how much help I can be, sir, if I'm still learning to use the Voice," she told the General. They were standing in his war room with Legate Rikke, a map of the province spiked with red and blue flags between them. "I still have a lot to learn from the Greybeards, and they're waiting for my return."

Rikke stepped in. "The Dragonborn comes at great need. Where do you think the need for you is greater? Here on the ground with the people? Or up on the mountain with the monks and the snow?"

Tullius nodded. "You might have doubts about your power, but to me, your power lies in being a symbol," he said. He tossed a small dossier onto the table. "I'm told you studied to be a priestess of Dibella before you joined our ranks. Surely, you understand the power of symbols."

Bee leafed through the papers, and her complaining half-prayer from the night before rang in her mind.

"Ulfric might wield the Voice, too, but the Empire will have a true Dragonborn on its side," Tullius continued. "You say you need training? Well, let them see that even the Dragonborn chooses the Empire to hone her sword. Whiterun claims you as its daughter; you might just be what finally spurs Whiterun to fly the red-and-black. Anything that helps me inspire more Nords away from this rebellion helps me to crush it."

He began to talk of tours through all the holds, pamphlets with her portrait on them, and commissioning new songs. Miel balked.

"Sir, I came to Skyrim happy to serve, even as a normal soldier. And you're right, I do understand the power of symbols," she began carefully. She absently traced the seal of the Camlorn temple atop one of the papers. "But, as novices, we were warned against abusing them for our own ends, lest it reflect poorly on the entire faith. I haven't been here long, but I suspect the Nords wouldn't take too well to the Dragonborn — and I speak of the symbol, not of myself — being bandied about by the Empire like a cheap puppet."

She looked at Rikke through the corner of her eyes. The Legate nodded, to her relief.

Levelly, Rikke said, "She's right, sir. But, so are you. It means something that the Dragonborn is on our side. Yet, I know the Nords will find it meaningful enough without making a spectacle of things."

Tullius scowled, but to his credit, he saw the wisdom in their opinions. "All right, what should we do with her, then?"

Rikke turned back to Bee. "What are you, a ranger? A scout?"

She blushed. "A guard, mostly, but I trained to skirmish. I suppose I can scout. I've also been teaching myself to conjure."

"Good. We can put you on high-visibility missions, like when we take back every blue fort you see on this map," Tullius said.

"The front lines?"

"Well, you wanted to be a normal soldier," he said. "There's your chance."

Rikke considered Miel's face thoughtfully. "You could do a bit of courier work, too. A tamer approach to the General's tour of the holds. Let people see you in your uniform, working for the Legion like everyone else."

Tullius nodded. "And if your ears are any good, you could even be useful as a spy. When people trust you or think you're harmless, you won't believe what secrets they divulge in your presence. I'm sure you know that from your temple days as well."

Bee didn't like the way he said that last sentence, but he was right. A perceptive acolyte could gather enough secrets to topple dynasties.

Looking down at the map, she remembered something the Greybeards had mentioned. "I've been told, sir, that there are walls of dragon writing hidden across the province. Would you allow me to seek them out? They could teach me things I could use on the field."

"Good thinking," Rikke said. "See if you can work them into your routes. In fact, you might pass one on your way back from the assignment I have in mind for you."

"All right, ma'am," Bee said, tapping the parchment. "Where do you want me to go?"

* * *

  
It had been some time since they had last seen Bee, though rumors reached them of her clearing out an entire fort of bandits in Haafingar by herself. She even passed through Whiterun a few times, bearing letters to and from various officers and courtiers, but never long enough for more than a brief chat or exchange of greetings in the street.

A month or so after the dragon fight at the Western Watchtower, Farkas and Vilkas returned from a hunt and decided to stop at the Drunken Huntsman for a pint. A good, strong drink could wash out the taste of blood and drown out the call to seek out more prey in the pitch-black woods. Of course, there were enough travelers, drunks, and drunken travelers keeping up a lively mood that night. It was highly possible one or both of them might find a different sort of prey, right there within the city walls.

Vilkas was eyeing a blonde stranger at a table packed with rowdy men. She seemed grateful for his interested smiles, as her own companion ignored her in favor of his friends. Vilkas was about to make a gesture of invitation when Farkas tugged on his arm.

"Look over there," he whispered.

In a darker corner of the tavern, Bee was sitting so close to Nazeem that she was practically in his lap. He had one slimy hand on her knee, which was on his knee. She was laughing a little too hard at something he had said. There was dark face paint around her eyes like a mask, and she was wearing a hunter's scaled armor instead of the Legion's red, but their senses told them it was her.

"What in Oblivion — " Vilkas said.

Nazeem peeled himself away to relieve himself, and Bee playfully ran her fingers around the mouth of his tankard. As soon as he was gone, her smile relaxed, and Farkas thought he saw her fingers snatch something from Nazeem's coat. She nodded across the room at someone.

Vilkas glanced over his shoulder to see Nazeem's own wife Ahlam, mouthing a "Thank you" before slipping out the tavern doors. More questions.

He looked back at Bee, who had caught sight of him and Farkas by then. Or, perhaps she had known they were watching the whole time. As Nazeem returned and attempted to envelop her, she winked in their direction.

Coyly, she extricated herself from the man's grasp, and her lips formed the words "one last toast." She emptied her mug, leading Nazeem to do the same. He resumed his attempt to seduce her and buried his face in her neck, allowing her to look directly at the twins and pretend to gag.

Farkas laughed and raised his own mug at her. Vilkas grew repulsed.

After a few minutes, however, Nazeem suddenly sagged against her. She gingerly pushed him off, arranged him with his head on the table, and covered him with his coat.

Before Vilkas could say anything, Farkas stood up and began walking over to her table. Signalling his blonde quarry to wait a moment, Vilkas reluctantly followed.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Miel said. She seemed genuinely embarrassed now that they were close. "I happen to be working."

Farkas sat, tactfully choosing a seat that would hide Nazeem's unconscious body from the rest of the room. As Vilkas followed suit, he got a whiff of Whiterun's most hated landowner — not drugged nor poisoned, merely drunk. Still, he wondered how long Bee would have put up with the man's advances.

"Are you — ?" he began.

"Oh, no, not that sort of work," Miel said, laughing. "I just needed to, uh, learn something from him. Someone thinks he knows something they need to know. I helped Ahlam with a different problem for good measure."

Farkas offered her his cup for a little toast. "I'm impressed," he said.

"I'm not," Vilkas spat. "Is this how the Empire is using you? Sneaking and deceit?"

Bee blinked. Farkas cringed, feeling the good humor depart from the table. His brother was always in a mood after a hunt. Of course, he was always in a mood before one, too.

"I thought you Companions lived and let live," Miel said quietly, her expression growing skeptical. "If I think one way of accomplishing a mission might be better than another, I'm going to use it, even if it's this." She gestured down at her body.

Vilkas scoffed. "I'm not talking about that. You could have let him take you right here, and if you really wanted it, I wouldn't have cared, though you'd have chosen the most disgusting spider for it. It's the trickery I can't stand."

Miel looked in disbelief at Farkas, who shrugged. Unfortunately for Vilkas, she had recently had another disagreement with Tullius over a mission; the resentment she had held back was now bubbling to the surface. What's more, she'd had as much to drink as Nazeem in order to push him to his limit, and the wine was now loosening her tongue.

"You favor a direct, honest approach, but not everyone fights that way, Vilkas," she said coldly. "I'm sorry if the civil war is not up to your moral standards."

She drained a cup and set it on the table a little too hard. "Now, I can count the number of conversations we've had since Last Seed on one hand," she said, her voice still level and icy. "That's since I arrived. How do you presume to judge me? You don't know anything about the life I've had before I came here. You claim this high and mighty neutrality, claim to keep your nose out of this war. Why do you care what I do in it?"

Farkas raised an eyebrow and drank deeply from his tankard. Why indeed?

"You — I — "

"Yes, that's what I thought, Vilkas." Bee scoffed and muttered, "This is why I never tell anybody about the te — "

She blinked, stopping herself.

"The what?" Farkas nudged her, his elbow lingering on her bare arm.

"It's nothing," she said. As quickly as they had begun, they had run out of fire. Farkas and Vilkas watched her eyes grow sad.

She began to look into the cups scattered across the table. "Where's that wine? I don't think I've finished with it."

"Maybe you've had enough," Farkas said gently, pushing some of the cups out of reach.

A grizzled, crouching man approached the table and hesitantly pointed at Nazeem, who had slept through all this. "Ah, pardon me, gentlemen and lady. I'm one of the Wintersand stewards. I've come to collect Master Nazeem. I'm under orders to look for him at this hour."

"Right," Bee said. "Please tell the good lady that the mail will be sorted."

"I think it's time I leave as well," Vilkas said, rising. He looked at his brother.

"I'm going to stay a little longer," Farkas replied. His expression bore a hint of reproach. Vilkas rolled his eyes.

"Good!" Bee said. "Thank you. If I hadn't had this to deal with — " she waved with a weak flourish at the limp Nazeem being slung onto the steward's back — "I would have sought you lads out tonight. Whiterun's the only place I've wanted to be since I came back, but I'm rarely ever here now." Her voice grew quieter as she stared at some point in space. "I liked talking with you last time."

Vilkas opened his mouth to apologize, but the steward stepped in front of him. "Would you mind holding the door open for me, kind sir?"

"Good night," was all Vilkas said before going to the door. The blonde stranger, forgotten and now incredulous, watched him leave.

Miel propped her head up on the table with one hand. She looked over at Farkas then.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You two must have come in after a long night, and I've ruined it with a fight."

Farkas shrugged. "He started it."

"Is he always like that?" She pointed at Vilkas's now empty seat. "The last time I was here, he was the one with the questions, too."

He laughed. Now that it was quieter, and she was looking right at him, he could enjoy the way the dim light flickered across her face.

"Yes, unfortunately. I'm sorry if I should have said something. It's what happens when one brother gets all the brains."

She smiled then. "What did you get?"

He smirked. It probably wasn't the time, but he couldn't resist. "Maybe sometime I'll show you."

She laughed aloud and leaned forward. "All right, tell me, how many women have you swayed with that one?"

Oh, dear. She had gotten him started. "It depends," he replied. "How swayed do you feel right now?"

This got another laugh, which Farkas thought was just as good an effect as any. She had already forgotten the argument of just moments before. They began to talk, just as she had wanted.

She asked him to tell her about life with the Companions, so Farkas began with what she had missed while she was in High Rock. How his trial had been clearing a cave full of trolls and bears. How Vilkas's had been a mine taken over by a necromancer. How they had been promoted to the Circle in their 30th year, for being so faithful to the band of fighters since their youth.

He didn't tell her all that joining the Circle entailed, of course.

"Our job's not much different from a soldier's, I bet," he said, "except you get orders, and we make contracts. I mostly handle the ones about settling debts and dealing with bandits. If anyone stays for life like Vilkas and me, it's by pure choice."

"You never thought about trying anything else?"

Farkas thought briefly of a girl from when he was 19 or 20, but he shook his head. "I feel like I was born to do this. Mercenary work suits me. The Companions are my family, and Jorrvaskr is my home."

Miel smiled. Life had made her skeptical of anyone who spoke of an institution with such zeal. But, Farkas seemed truly content.

"What about you, then?" he asked. "What led you to join the Legion?"

Miel was saved by one more interruption. Elrindir came over to see if they wanted anything, and he deposited a key on the table. "It was clearly presumptive of him," the tavern keeper said, "but the man you were with earlier paid for a room to share with you. You're welcome to stay there anyway, if you don't have other accommodations for the evening." He picked up the empty cups, gave the table a quick wipe with a cloth, and rushed away.

Miel cupped her cheek in thought. Farkas leaned back in his chair. Both of them stared at the key.

He had been interested in her since he'd seen her at the Pelagia Farm. As he'd told her his stories tonight, he'd worked in suggestive remarks just to see how she'd react. He was drawing from his childhood penchant for teasing her, but she was now old enough and sharp enough to see it for what it was and bat it away, or even tease back. It only made him more eager to see how long she could keep up with him, how much flirtation she would humor before she grew too flustered to laugh it off. The way she'd played Nazeem and the answer she'd given Vilkas about her body also suggested that she would be no delicate blossom. And, she had hinted at a secret this evening; there was still more to discover.

Now, an opportunity was presenting itself, and as Bee herself had said, she was rarely ever here. If things didn't continue from the evening, Farkas thought, they might at least have something fun to look back on later on.

Bee had been sleepy from the wine, but her heart seemed to beat faster the longer the key sat on the table. Here was a chance to satisfy the curiosity he'd sparked when he'd laid his hand on her shoulder, under the old tree in Last Seed. She hadn't been blind to his volleys at the Bannered Mare that first night back, nor to the way he had looked at her and tested her this evening — nor to the suggestions of actual tenderness toward her. Were those imagined?

The part of her that didn't want to talk about her life before the Legion wondered if he was only still there because he had seen her acting loose, angry, and drunk. Another part of her hoped he was there in spite of it. And, part of her just wanted to see what was under all that steel and hide he wore.

Her eyes slid sideways at her companion. "Will you tuck me in?" she asked softly.

Farkas's eyebrows flicked up in surprise and amusement. "How many men have fallen for that one?" he replied.

"It depends."

They laughed, and Miel picked up the key. She turned it over with mild curiosity and saw a number engraved on the head. "I've never stayed here before; I don't know where the room is."

Farkas grinned, and Miel couldn't tell if he was wolfish or sheepish. "I do," he said. This was funny to them, too.

It was clear that neither of them were new to this sort of carrying on. Somehow, this and the obviousness of their intentions threatened to reduce them to giggles as he led her down the corridor. There was something of their youthful eagerness, too, as though he were taking her down to the pond to see the frogs and the mudcrabs.

As he began to turn the key, she kissed him, and they nearly fell as the door gave way behind him. He tasted of wild game and spiced mead. She liked the hum and push of his laughter on her lips, as she fumbled with his armor and his hands showed her where to find the buckles and clasps.

When he had gotten through to her tunic and breeches, he said, "Wait a moment." He pulled away from her in the dark, and there was the sound of a match being struck.

He lifted up a lantern, smiled, and placed it on the bedside table. "I wanted to see you better."

She smiled. "I like seeing, too." His armor was well-lined, so he didn't wear a tunic underneath, and the lantern behind him cast a golden outline on his arms and shoulders. She took a step toward him. "How did you find matches and a lamp so quickly in the dark?"

Farkas winced. But, as always, he had a good answer. "I told you, I'm no stranger to these rooms."

She laughed and drew close again, yet he asked her once more to wait. He made her sit down at the foot of the bed, pulled over the washbasin and cloths, and began to dab at her face. They sat cross-legged, facing one another. The black of her painted mask — what he hadn't already smudged — began to stain the towel.

"Farkas? What on earth are you doing?"

He chuckled. "I want to see your face," he said, softly at first, then teasing, "and I need to get all the Nazeem slobber off."

"It's mixed with yours now," Bee said. But, she felt something inside her soften, even as she marveled at his self-control. He didn't hide his smirking glances down the collar of her tunic, but there was that surprising sweetness again, more than a hint this time. He paused at the scar under her eye.

"That water's cold," she remarked, before he could ask about it.

Farkas couldn't help rising to the bait. "Don't worry, you'll be warm soon enough."

"Have you got one of those for everything? I'd be impressed if they weren't so terrible."

"Again, as I've said, I'm no stranger to these rooms. And, if they're that terrible, don't worry. I'll have other ways to impress you."

Bee nearly squealed. "Oh, Milady help me," she said, holding back tears as she laughed. "Just terrible!"

"Who's Milady?"

She blinked, feeling caught, then suddenly shy. "It's one of the things we call Dibella back home," she said.

Farkas raised an eyebrow. "A Dibellan? Well, aren't I in for a treat, then?"

She didn't laugh so much at this one. Farkas suspected she wasn't going to let him pull that thread and didn't press her. If they had another chance after this night, maybe then.

As he finished cleaning her face, she raised a hand and lightly touched the skin under his eyes with her fingertips. She had smudged his paint, too. "Let me do you," she said.

"Oh, please, yes," he said, restoring the mood. She swatted at him with a rag and then began to wipe his own face paint off.

As she worked, he took advantage of the fact that he was done and placed his hands on her knees. She flushed prettily in the lantern light as he began to move upward, under the hem of her tunic.

She swatted him again. "I had to wait; so should you!"

Miel held him with one hand by his stubbled jaw as she wiped. She thought he looked a little less intimidating without the paint, though his silvery gray eyes were just as piercing. As she cleaned around them, she had trouble looking right into them. They seemed to grow hungrier and hungrier by the second. She found herself shivering when she finally laid the cloth aside and met his gaze.

"Before anything else," he began.

"Oh, come on!"

He laughed and placed his hands on her knees again. "This is the last thing, I promise." His expression grew wistful. "Look, I know you're a soldier, so you're a busy woman. I'm a busy man. You probably won't be here tomorrow when I wake up because you have to get back to Castle Dour, or wherever it is you're going. I want to let you know I'll have no hard feelings, no expectations for after this if that's what you want. I can tell we're old hands at this kind of thing; you probably don't need to hear all this. I just thought — because we were kids together and you'll probably be back — well, I hope you'll come back to Whiterun — I just thought I'd say it for formality's sake."

"Oh, Farkas," Bee said, a little mockingly, a little touched. Slowly, she leaned forward, reached a hand toward his waist, and pressed on his breeches as her mouth drew close to his own. "Don't you lie to me about no hard feelings," she whispered.

"Now, who's terrible?" he growled.

* * *

  
Vilkas continued his restless patrol around Jorrvaskr.

His thoughts kept returning to Miel, and it bothered him. Why did he care? She was right. They hadn't spoken much since they were children. She had her own life and was her own woman. They were both fighters, but her line of work was different from his, and she had just been handling business in the way it, apparently, demanded. They weren't close enough for his opinion to matter.

Vilkas groaned inwardly as he recalled his own words. He had probably seemed preachy and presuming. But then, why did he care what she thought of him, too?

Dawn was breaking, and he heard his brother coming up the steps from the Gildergreen. Farkas was humming.

"I take it you had a pleasant evening," Vilkas said.

Farkas mirrored his smirk but said nothing. For a moment, they stood at the top of the steps and watched the city as it began to wake. Their breath came out in puffs. It was already snowing farther north; in another month or so, all of Skyrim would be blanketed in white.

"It'll be winter soon," Farkas said. "I wonder if the war'll stop for a while."

"So you can see her again?"

They jostled with one another for a moment; horseplay was something they would never outgrow. Then, Farkas hung an arm around his brother's shoulders and sighed.

"We haven't made any plans. We just had a fun time. If I do see her again, I suppose we'll see what happens."

Vilkas snorted. "What did you two talk about after I left?" he couldn't help asking. "Or was there not much talking?"

Farkas gave him a light smack with his palm, and Vilkas elbowed him deeply in retaliation.

"She wanted to know more about Companions life, what we got up to after she went to High Rock, that kind of thing," Farkas said. "Last time, we just talked about Whiterun, remember? And with all that dragon business going on, we didn't actually do much catching up about ourselves."

"All right. Well, what did you learn about her this time? Did you talk about her being Dragonborn?"

Farkas blinked. "Huh. You know, it never came up."

Vilkas squinted. "Well, what about her so-called work, then, or what she else did after leaving Skyrim?"

Farkas shook his head. "Nope. Nothing."

"Incredible. Ysmir's beard, Farkas, you talked only about yourself, didn't you?"

"Huh."

Vilkas couldn't decide whether to be scornful or teasing. It was his turn to throw his arm around his brother's shoulders and shake him a little. "Do you understand? She did what you do, to you."

They both laughed in disbelief for a moment. Vilkas felt his respect for Miel rising a little, though he was reluctant to recognize it just yet.

Farkas grinned. "If you're so curious about her, why don't you ask her about it next time?"

Vilkas said nothing to this.

"Or, don't ask her. She noticed that about you," Farkas said, waggling a finger at his brother's nose. "The one with the questions, that's what she called you."

"She's never told us anything worth knowing about her!"

Farkas shrugged. "I feel like she's worth knowing," he said thoughtfully. "And I don't just mean for sleeping with. She's interesting."

Vilkas shook his head. "Interesting" was all his brother might need, but he craved details, information. Why, though? And about her?

Farkas pulled himself out from under his brother's arm. "Vilkas, just be nice to her next time," he said. "Stop trying to get her on her back foot. Give her a chance to let you see her."

"You've had drinks with her twice and gone to bed once, and you think you see her?"

Farkas smirked at the memory of just what he had seen — an exquisite tattoo, for example, near a ticklish spot — but he knew what they were talking about. "I saw enough," he simply said, "to think she's interesting."

Vilkas watched his brother stumble inside to see if Tilma had readied breakfast. Left outside with his thoughts, he sighed. Farkas was smarter than most people believed. Various words swam forth in Vilkas's mind as he tried to name what he thought of Miel, and why he thought that way. "Interesting" was the safest.

The trouble was, he didn't want to be interested in her. On the surface, the war was the main reason. Idolaf stayed in Whiterun because the Legion recognized his family's position in Skyrim; though Whiterun itself was neutral, he was a tactful liaison between the hold and Castle Dour. Bee, despite being born in Whiterun, did not have such roots, and so the Legion could send her where it pleased. No one but its generals could say where she would be from one week to the next. That wasn't the sort of life that would sustain "interest".

Beneath the surface, well. Even if she could probably shout all of those generals down, as long as Miel accepted their authority, she was not free. Though he knew nothing of her talk with Tullius and Rikke, she and Rikke had had the right of it. It was her willingness to submit, to make herself a tool in their hands — and as the Dragonborn, no less — that rankled Vilkas. Freedom mattered to him most of all.

Vilkas grew hungry, and not for breakfast. He longed to run across the plains and into the hills, to track and chase something alive and scared, to be called ever forward by the smell of its fear. It didn't even matter if he caught it; the intensity of the chase was what he wanted.

The sun was fully risen now, and he could hear the market traders beginning to set up their wares for the day. He needed to wait. He needed to think about something else. He began to outline a training program for his day, but first, he needed to try to get an hour or two of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

They did not see Miel again until the first of Sun's Dusk. Vilkas stepped into Belethor's that day to pick up a few supplies and browse through the new shipment of books. Bee was inside, comparing dresses with a pair of young girls. For once, she was out of uniform, or any sort of armor, for that matter. She wore a loose blue tunic, belted at the waist over dark leather trousers. Her blades still hung from the belt, however.

"I think the gray one with the red trim suits you, Sofie," she was saying. "You have a good eye."

The older girl, about 11 or 12, preened and lovingly ran her fingers through the folds of the skirt. "Can I really have it, Mama?"

Bee laughed. "Of course! You can't go on wearing your old red one. It's much too small for you." She nodded at the younger child. Vilkas recognized the waif who begged under the Gildergreen. He had vaguely wondered where she had gone in the last week.

"What about you, Lucia? Do you like the blue one, or the yellow?"

Lucia fingered the white flowers at the collar of the yellow dress, but she was too shy to say anything.

Miel looked up at him then and smiled. "What do you think, Vilkas? Yellow or blue?"

Vilkas started. The children looked at him expectantly. Above their heads, Bee winked and pointed. "Uh, yellow," he stammered. "Yellow is nice. Very pretty."

Lucia smiled, pleased, and Miel had Sigurd the shop assistant wrap the dresses up. Vilkas saw him place them in a pile of other parcels.

"Vilkas, this is Sofie, and this is Lucia," Miel began. "They're — well, they're my children now, and they're going to live with me at Breezehome. Girls, this is Vilkas of Jorrvaskr. He's my friend from when I was even younger than you." She bent her head closer to them for a conspiratorial murmur. "He once put me in an apple barrel and then lost the barrel, when one of the traders put it with the rest."

Vilkas allowed himself to laugh along with the children. "Kodlak gave me quite the hiding that day," he said.

Lucia blanched. "Will you hit us if we're bad?" she whispered.

"Oh, sweet one, I could never!" Bee squatted and placed her hands on the child's shoulders. "But, I will ask Lydia to give the two of you extra chores if she thinks you need them."

Sofie nodded. Vilkas found her expression funny, as though she had assessed a business agreement and found it acceptable.

"What about toys, or games? Have you learned your letters? You can have books," Bee continued.

Behind the counter, Belethor beamed with all his smarm. He was having a good business day.

"Really?"

Sofie was already reaching for a doll.

Bee laughed. "Just a few. We still need to feed you, you know. But you will need something to amuse yourselves. You know I can't be with you all the time." She looked at him again. "Maybe Vilkas can help you choose a book."

He smiled a little. "Do you have 'Kolb and the Dragon'?" he asked Belethor.

Sigurd, who had been sorting the books, rushed over with a new copy, and Vilkas bent down to present it to Sofie. Thoughtfully, she opened the cover and read the first page.

"It says it's for boys," she said, wrinkling her nose.

Bee laughed. "That was written by someone who forgot that girls like books, too. Just ignore it."

As the children continued to look over the selection of books and toys, Vilkas found himself asking Miel a question. "You've got yourself a house? And — " he nodded silently at the children.

She smiled as though she couldn't believe it herself. "It might take some explaining. I'd throw a housewarming party, but I don't think we'd all fit." She looked at him thoughtfully and then said, "Why don't you and the lads meet me at the Mare for a bit of ale or mead after dinner, and I'll tell you all about it?"

Vilkas blinked in surprise. He was suddenly aware that his guard had slipped in the children's presence. Perhaps it had been Miel's sisterly tone with them. But, he had wanted information, and she was offering it.

"I have to go to Fort Neugrad tomorrow afternoon. I don't know how long I'll be there," she pressed.

His brother had said to be nice. Vilkas tried not to sigh aloud. "All right. We'll meet you at the Mare," he replied.

* * *

  
Farkas ran late, and Vilkas didn't want to go by himself. By the time they arrived at the Mare, Miel was already seated with Idolaf and Alfhild. Idolaf waved them over. Farkas dropped himself onto the seat next to her, leaving not much space between them. He feigned an apology, and they exchanged knowing smiles as he inched only a little away. Vilkas sat across.

"Oh, good," Alfhild said. "You two can take over. I'm sorry, Bee, but we must get going. It was good catching up, finally!"

As she stood, they could see her round belly poking through her coat, and Vilkas cried out. "When did that happen? Congratulations!"

Idolaf shook his head. "Look up from your books every now and then, why don't you?"

They all shook hands, and then the couple left. Farkas called a server over for some mead.

"So," he began, elbowing Bee, "I hear you're a mother now, too. I know I'm not the best with numbers, but just to make sure, they're not mine, are they?"

She laughed.

Their drinks arrived, and Vilkas raised a simple toast. "To your new home," he said politely.

"Gods," she said, after they had downed half their tankards. "Where should I begin?" She looked at Vilkas then and broke into a crooked smile. "Well? Ask me a question."

Now Farkas laughed. He changed seats so that he sat at a third side of the table, for a better view between them.

Vilkas stuck his jaw to one side and shook his head. He took a breath. "First, Miel, let me apologize. When you were here last month, I did a bit of moralizing. I offended you. I'm sorry."

She nodded, mildly surprised. She had long forgiven him, but it was gratifying to see and hear his sincerity. "I accept your apology," she said, and they touched cups again. "For what it's worth, though, I've stopped taking that approach on these extraction missions. So many of Skyrim's rich and powerful seem to be made of the same stock as Nazeem. I'd like very much for that kind of night to be its last."

"Oh, you don't mean that," Farkas said. He clutched at his chest in feigned heartbreak, and she laughed.

"I fell back on old techniques, I suppose," she said.

She looked at them then and considered them carefully. Either they had already heard this about her, and they were still here for one reason or another, or, they would hear it from her own lips, and she might lose some of the few people she considered friends in this harsh land.

Vilkas had, in fact, heard a few things. He sensed her hesitation. "Tell us your story," he said, speaking as evenly as he could. "Please." Farkas nodded in encouragement.

Miel swallowed, took a deep breath, and added a gulp of mead for good measure.

"Before I joined the Legion, I was studying for the priesthood of Dibella in Camlorn," she began. "Someone heard me singing at my mother's inn when I was 12, and they asked my parents to let me live and study at the temple."

"You were 12?" Farkas cried.

Bee winced. "Please, please wait till I get to — I know what you're thinking, just — I almost never tell anyone because they get all these ideas — "

Vilkas put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Sorry, he'll be quiet. We're listening."

After an uncertain look at them, she decided to go on.

"My parents did well enough, but we were still peasants. You know how it is. You learn your letters and numbers at your mother's knee, maybe a spell or two, and then you take a trade. Anything more than that, you'd have to be a noble, or have money, or the kindness and invitation of people with money. Or, a holy order takes you in."

Thus, when that priestess came, her parents saw it as an opportunity for their daughter. They were understandably uncertain about some Dibellan practices, but they were assured that she would always have a choice. After she came of age, she could continue to study the more advanced teachings, aspire to priesthood, and even become Sybil if she heard the calling. Or, she could leave the temple for the artistic patronage of High Rock nobles, who valued talent schooled and recommended by Dibella's own. Whichever Bee chose, there was the prospect of something more than a commoner's life, and so her parents urged her to go.

"I hardly needed the urging. In my first year, I thought I had been taken into Aetherius itself. Painting, sculpting, writing, dance, speech, music, theater — I was always surrounded by beauty, or people striving for it. And, they said I — me, Little Bee — could have a place among them."

Her eyes began to sparkle as she spoke, and she glowed in her reverie. Vilkas recalled what Farkas had said about seeing her.

He grew curious. "What did you take up?"

"A bit of everything, which meant I was special at nothing," she said with a laugh. "I still enjoy the lute, though. And, I've drummed for marches."

"Do you still sing?" Farkas asked.

Vilkas stifled his reaction. His brother had a weakness for a good voice.

Miel smiled. "You'll have to judge for yourself, some other time."

"Maybe I'll make you sing."

"Shh!" Vilkas said.

Her thoughts returned to her story. "Anyway, I fell in love with Milady, Dibella, because I learned that all this beauty was her domain. So, when I was old enough, I chose to stay and serve her. That was when lessons on the other arts began."

Miel sensed their curiosity deepening, and she grew wary. "You have to understand, hardly anyone in the order practices all of the arts. I knew a sister who devoted herself to sculpture and nothing else. You never had to do anything with your body that you didn't want. It's just that anyone who even tries for priesthood must know each aspect of Milady's domain, even if only in principle. So, I learned about love.

"It was mostly listening to the Sybil and the priestesses, reading old texts, and meditating on their wisdom." Of course, some texts had been more instructive than others, but that didn't need mention at the moment. "Again, they never made us do anything we didn't want, with anyone we didn't want. I never did anything until I felt ready."

She paused, and the rapture she had shown earlier began to return to her face. "But, I came to understand love, passionate love, as a Divine blessing. It's not a taking, but a giving. You give another person the blessing of total knowledge that they can be wanted, that they can be beautiful, that they can be loved. And, because Dibella is nothing if not creative, you make sure they enjoy knowing it. You make it fun."

Vilkas felt his face grow hot. Farkas exhaled loudly and asked for more mead. Miel couldn't help feeling a little satisfaction at the effect of her words, but she continued.

Bee felt that the misconceptions people had about Dibellan love were partly due to a lack of agreement within the faith itself. Factions disagreed about how freely one ought to give the blessing of ardor. It was a delicate struggle to determine where their practices fell on the spectrum between corrupt Sanguinic debauchery and sacred Maran commitment. As a general rule, however, if partners wished to be exclusive, it was to be respected.

"It's the same at Jorrvaskr," Farkas put in. "You live all together like that, people are bound to end up in each other's beds. Nobody fights over 'my man' or 'my woman' because each one belongs to themselves."

Vilkas nodded. "If you want to keep the peace among your shield-siblings, you don't get jealous, and you leave those who get married or make pledges alone."

The seed of a question was planted in Bee's mind, but it would not bloom for some time yet.

"Well, I left the temple because a pledge I had with someone wasn't left alone," she said ruefully. "And it was with someone else that I not only trusted but followed as a mentor."

Farkas hissed and topped off her mead.

"To make things worse, she claimed that I couldn't be angry. My anger was a betrayal of the faith, she said. I couldn't be a true acolyte of love if I wanted to stop others from sharing it."

Vilkas shook his head.

Miel sighed with regret. "If I had been older, perhaps I would have been able to look the other way and move on with my life. Or, I would have given her all the arguments I've come up with since then. But, I was 20 — young, angry, heartbroken, losing my faith. So, I left."

Bee wouldn't have said anything, but to keep her from doing so, the acolyte spread a rumor among the temple's noble patrons that Miel had been the traitor, that she had left in shame, not indignation. Thus, her hopes for even the humblest patronage outside of the temple were dashed. Guillaume had then suggested the Legion because they accepted anyone, and her education would save them the trouble of teaching some clumsy footman how to drum a proper march for the next parade. "You know the rest."

Farkas shook his head and raised his tankard. "And, look at you now. You're a Thane. You've got a house, kids. You're the bloody Dragonborn."

Miel and Vilkas answered his cup with theirs, and she smiled appreciatively.

"Thank you, but the house has a bit of scandal about it, too."

"Do tell."

Miel looked at the candle that kept time above Hulda's bar. It wasn't her time for sleep yet, but she was getting a bit drowsy from the drink. Still, the twins now knew the most secret things about her, and they hadn't abruptly excused themselves nor made any presumptive requests. She felt warmed in a way she had not in a long time, and it wasn't just the mead. She didn't want to leave the table just yet.

"All right," she said. "Another story."

She had been fine sleeping in the barracks, the inns, or in her tent. She met Lucia and Sofie during her assignments, and her heart had gone out to them, yet the most she could do at the time was to give them a few coins whenever they crossed paths.

Then, questions and rumors began to reach Tullius's ears in Castle Dour. Some families who supported the Stormcloaks had begun a whisper campaign to discredit Miel, painting her as just another outsider interfering with Nords' lives. She had no property in the province — not even in the very hold that called her Thane. How could they expect her to stand for the good of Skyrim when she had nothing to lose? Was she somehow exempt from Skyrim's laws and traditions? How could they then expect her to uphold and defend them?

They stressed that she was Miel the Breton, Miel of Camlorn, Miel the half-breed — no true daughter of Skyrim, and thus no daughter of Whiterun.

Vilkas shook his head. He had heard some of these whisperings from old Vignar Gray-Mane himself.

"And then it got worse," Bee said. Her voice began to drip with sarcasm. "Apparently, I'm also Miel the Dibellan whore, as well as Miel the faithless, Miel the apostate. I'm being condemned for giving up my old service, for which I am also condemned.

"Surely, someone like me couldn't truly be Dragonborn, because the gods wouldn't bestow dragon blood on this faithless foreign harlot. Surely, I learned the Voice on my own somehow, and I'm a false Dragonborn being propped up by the Empire."

"That's stupid," Farkas said. "Half the city of Whiterun saw you take a dragon's soul in Last Seed."

Miel waved a dismissive hand. "Falsehoods. Magic trickery. Mirage. Thalmor illusions fooling the defenseless masses."

Vilkas had doubted her character, but he knew what he had seen, and this was too much. "I'm sorry this is happening to you," he said.

"Yes," Farkas said, patting her gently on the back. No additional intentions there. "Uh, what does this have to do with the house?"

Bee gave a short laugh. "Sorry, I'm getting to it. I suppose you know about the Jagged Crown business?"

Vilkas nodded. The Dragonborn had helped the Legion take the crown from Korvanjund, right out from under the Stormcloaks' noses, and given it to Elisif. By itself, this would have caused a huge political stir. But, the fact that it had happened so close to the end of Frostfall gave it an air of fate — or scandal, depending on who told the tale. Now, on the list of Miel the outsider's crimes, they could add stealing the crown that belonged to Skyrim's rightful true king, Ulfric Stormcloak, and salting the wounds of the Great War for its anniversary.

"Well, after that," Bee continued, "even people in the Blue Palace began to ask about me. Some of them thought I deserved a bigger reward for bringing the crown to Solitude — I was just its courier; other soldiers fought for that crown, too. And, others at court made Tullius see the need to address some of these questions about me.

"So, either we'd embark on a campaign to educate the Nords about the difference between lechery and ardor, and I'd tell the whole province my sad, sordid life story — or, I'd get a house."

Vilkas smiled and shook his head.

Farkas poured for them. "It's good that you laugh about this."

She raised her cup in gratitude, and they drank.

"As for the children," she continued, "well, I just thought it was a shame I would have this house now, nobody living in it six days out of eight, while they were freezing in the street. Winter is practically here. I can't be a house mother to them, but at least I can keep them fed, and warm."

Vilkas nodded at her. "You're doing a good thing," he said. "Farkas and I didn't exactly have a normal home or family, but it was ours, and better than none."

"Hear, hear."

She smiled gratefully at them. Vilkas knew, despite his inner protests, that his heart had opened.

Tullius had actually been supportive of her adoption, too. Now, she could be Mother Miel, savior of Skyrim's waifs and strays — one a Stormcloak orphan waif at that. It had taken her and Rikke a little effort to talk him out of commissioning a pamphlet.

As for the children's safety in Breezehome, Lydia, the housecarl Balgruuf had assigned Bee, would serve as minder and protector while Bee was away. If Lydia ever chafed at this task, she was too honorable to say so. Miel was always grateful for her service, and over the years, the girls listened to and respected Lydia, most of the time.

"We can drop by the house and check on them for you, too, if you like," Farkas offered.

"You would do that?" Bee asked. Alfhild and Idolaf had made the same offer, too. "Aren't you a busy man?" she teased.

Farkas made a face at her. "When I'm not busy, yes, I would do that."

"Thank you."

Vilkas took a turn with the bottle and distributed the last of its contents among the three of them. "Does all this mean you'll be in Whiterun more often?" he asked quietly.

Farkas shot his brother a look of intrigued surprise. He hid his smile in his cup.

"I hope so," she said. "As a guardian, I'm allowed to live at home instead of the barracks, as long as I'm not carrying out a mission or assigned elsewhere. And — well, I told you I'm going to Neugrad tomorrow." She nodded at Vilkas. "I'm to be based there during the winter. It should be near enough to let me come home at least one day a week."

She blinked and looked up at the ceiling. "'Come home'. I guess that makes it official, doesn't it?"

"Miel of Whiterun has a nice ring to it," Farkas said.

Tears sprang into her eyes. After all the uncertainty since her arrival in Skyrim, the idea that she could belong to a place was a light in the fog. And somehow, it meant more to hear it from someone who knew her, somewhat. She looked away, embarrassed.

Vilkas raised his tankard. "Welcome home, Bee," he said.

They drained their cups, and then Bee said it was time she turned in. They stood to pay for their drinks before making their way to the door.

In the cold air, Farkas stretched. Miel gasped as she looked up at the sky, and Vilkas held up a hand. The first snow had come to Whiterun. To Miel, it felt like a good sign, though of what, she couldn't say.

They gazed down the street to where Breezehome waited.

"Best part of you living here is we can offer to walk you home," Farkas said.

On their way back to Jorrvaskr, the twins were silent, though Farkas could almost hear his brother's mind churning. He nudged Vilkas in the ribs.

"Well?"

Slowly, Vilkas nodded. "She's — interesting."


	4. Chapter 4

Whiterun's neutrality posed a strategic challenge to both the Empire and the Stormcloaks. It sat at Skyrim's fertile heart. Though either side could attempt to gain more territory by skirting the hold entirely, Hjaalmarch's swamps and the mountains between the Rift and Falkreath meant incursions would be more difficult to reinforce, and retreats, more difficult to make, than if they could simply fall back on Whiterun's support. To cross a raging river, they could walk until they found a shallow point, or they could cut down a tree and simply walk across. Whiterun would be that tree.

After keeping her on the road for the past two months, Tullius now wanted to see how she meshed with other soldiers, while also stashing her somewhere convenient for the winter. Miel was posted to Fort Neugrad in case the Stormcloaks planned to come in from the southeast, from the Rift and through what remained of Helgen. She trained in the yard with the troops, or she joined patrols around the Throat of the World, looking for signs that Ulfric's men would make an attempt on Falkreath. If he succeeded, Neugrad would then provide the Stormcloaks another garrison from which to attack Whiterun itself.

The more Tullius and Rikke studied the Stormcloaks' movements, however, the more they believed that Ulfric would wait for the spring. Neugrad could easily fall to a winter siege, only for reinforcements from Cyrodiil to retake it from the south. Attacking Whiterun itself would be the most practical move, yet doing so now could be a waste of time and morale. The city had enough stores. They could simply wait out the winter while the Stormcloaks spent the Evening Star holidays beating themselves against the city walls. Skirmishes on the borders of Whiterun erupted throughout the winter whenever blue and red patrols ran into one another — Miel took part in a few herself — but otherwise, an unspoken truce settled over the province for the season.

Rikke suspected that Ulfric would wait for the Feast of the Dead, when the names of the Five Hundred Companions were read in Windhelm. An attack on Whiterun then would take on a mythic quality: Stormcloaks would surge forth to reclaim their land while invoking the names of the ancestors who had stormed Skyrim long ago. It would make for a good song, as Ulfric liked to say.

After spending her first few months roaming Skyrim for the Legion, Bee began to think of her time at Neugrad as a vacation. Though it was often dull, she recognized it was a taste of the life she had imagined before learning she was Dragonborn.

She especially liked socializing with her fellow soldiers. Adrianne had been right; people learned to treat her normally again. The rumors about her meant there were some cheeky remarks, and she even had a bit of fraternization, when she and a comrade on patrol happened to be waiting out the snow in a cave. But, for the most part, she found herself among friends, brothers and sisters in arms. They even got used to the sight of her breathing a controlled fire to warm herself sometimes, her throat glowing orange, the flames licking harmlessly at her face.

The other thing she enjoyed was the mail from Whiterun. The commander of the fort was reluctant to give her any leave, and Miel was not the type to go over her head to complain to Tullius, so she depended on the mail for news of what she now thought of as home. Both Alfhild and Lydia sent notes about how the girls were doing, and Alfhild always had a little Whiterun gossip to add. Bee hadn't been there long enough to know half the people she described, but it helped her feel she belonged to the place. Lucia and Sofie, meanwhile, amused her with their brief complaints about squabbles with other children, rambling scrawls about strange dreams, and not-so-subtle hints about gifts they wanted for Saturalia. Their mother was half-Breton; surely, they would get at least half the good Bretic holidays.

Miel was surprised, then touched and more than a little perplexed, that along with mail from Breezehome every week, Farkas and Vilkas sent notes of their own.

Farkas spent little ink on words and more of it on rustic doodles and sketches. His hand was like the rest of him, rough but talented. Bee's favorites were one of the Lover Stone in the Reach ("Had to beat up Vorstag at the inn. Saw this and thought of you.") and another one of Lucia and Sofie playing hide-and-seek near a farm ("Stablehand almost caught them. Sound familiar?").

There was also an impressively detailed recreation of her tattoo, a moth in the style of old Nordic relief sculpture being trailed by a honeybee, above a lily in bloom. "Did I get it right? Might need to see it again," he wrote.

Vilkas first sent, not a letter, but the notation for the opening moves of a chess game. They played it over several weeks through correspondence, anticipating her next leave, when they could finish it in person. Answering these notes meant trying to guess at the long game underlying the moves he sent, and trying to anticipate how he would respond to hers — which meant thinking about Vilkas a lot.

Of this mail, only the first of what she would receive throughout the war, Miel was not sure what to think.

Farkas's notes were more suggestive, but that could have just been Farkas being Farkas. She saw him once at the Sleeping Giant Inn, during a supply run for the fort to Riverwood, and he and Bee merely nodded and winked at each other from across the room. He was busy making the trader's sister giggle and blush like a rose. The next note had been a cartoonish, bloody self-portrait; "Fought with a bard, but I won." Bee tried to think of his drawings as only more amusements from a charming friend. Tried.

As for Vilkas, it was easier for her to think he was only being friendly, giving a fellow warrior something to keep her mind sharp while she waited for action. But, the fact that they were playing at all, when he had only recently eased from skeptical and rude to simply cordial, confused her a little. Perhaps this was his way of indicating that he sincerely wanted to be friends, and the rapprochement of his apology in the Bannered Mare would continue. Or, at least, that was what Bee told herself.

Bee could only write brief, innocuous replies to the brothers. "Very good. Glad you didn't draw where the moth is, or some lads around here would have a fit." "You'll regret that. Pawn X takes knight XX." For, what else was there to say?

Miel also wrote to her father. They exchanged notes on how a soldier's life here compared with theirs in High Rock. Since he asked, she described fighting dragons, but not in too much detail. She also said, "I might be something called Dragonborn," but he didn't ask about that, and so they didn't discuss it further. Guillaume did send her occasional snippets of things he had read about Dragonborns of the past, in case it might be helpful, but he always seemed to know when she wanted to sort things out on her own. To be frank, he expressed more interest and excitement at word of grandchildren. He hoped they would visit Camlorn when the fighting ended.

Miel's leaves to Whiterun, at her commander's insistence, were far too few and brief. She would have barely a day to spend with the children and see to little things around the house. After they went to bed, she allowed herself a pint or two at the Huntsman with whichever of her friends was around, before she had to retreat to Breezehome again. One night, when it was just the two of them, she tested the waters with Vilkas and offered him a special reward for beating her at chess. But, he had tactfully reminded her that she had to set off for Fort Neugrad at dawn.

Finally, the Old and New Life Festivals drew near. Miel's commander, faced with the fact that Miel had not been on leave in nearly three weeks, and that she had orphan wards who would otherwise celebrate alone, relented. Bee reached Breezehome by the afternoon, in time to give Lydia the holidays off and take over preparations for the feast.

* * *

  
They had a simple but hearty dinner for Old Life: salted meat, potato and leek soup, some light cheese, dried fruit, and a pudding made of old bread — a clearing of the pantry to make way for new blessings in the new year. For breakfast the next day, the Battle-Borns had sent the rack of an early lamb, and the little family also needed to bake new rolls and buy fresh milk. To everyone's delight, Guillaume had sent a sack of cold-hardy citrus from High Rock, along with belated Saturalia surprises for the children, and Bee sent Sofie up to the Wind District with a pail of the fruit to repay the Battle-Borns for the lamb.

As they ate their dinner, the girls chattered about all the things they had waited to tell Bee. Though a lot of it was silly, she was glad that they saw her as someone to tell things. Lucia was shy at first, conscious of how little time they'd actually had together since the adoption, but Sofie's self-sure gabbling and Bee's own gentle prodding coaxed her out of her shell. At Neugrad, Miel had wondered if it had been the right thing to do, taking them in only to leave them in the care of another stranger. But, it seemed they had settled quickly and were thriving, as she had hoped.

After the meal, the three of them walked together to the last service at the Temple of Kynareth. Bee had not been as devout to any of the Divines since she had left the Camlorn temple, but she liked going to holiday services just to commune with the crowd — everyone who looked for meaning, for blessings, for answers, for signs. She usually offered a casual, silent prayer — "I'm still here if you are" — to remind both herself and whichever Divine might be listening of her dormant faith.

The Old Life Festival was when people of the Empire reflected on their pasts. Despite Whiterun's avowed neutrality, the temples in the city still held Old Life services for those who marked the day (and taverns still threw their doors open for anyone who wanted a reason for revelry). This year, Miel had chosen Kynareth, because of her newfound Voice.

At the door, a peddler asked them if they wanted candles and other tokens for offerings, and Miel bought a hawk feather.

"May I get one, too, please?" Lucia said.

"And me," Sofie said. She looked up at Miel. "Who's your feather for?"

"My mother," she said, smiling faintly.

"Mine, too."

"Mine, too," Lucia said.

Bee squeezed their hands, and a quiet understanding passed between them as they went into the temple.

* * *

  
After the service, they emerged from the temple to find the city's celebrations in full swing. Merrymakers spilled out of taverns and inns into the streets. Music came from everywhere, and street performers, toy peddlers, and sweets makers went around pressing revelers for coins. Miel remembered how she and her parents spent such nights when she was a girl and was delighted. Her first holidays were in this very same market square.

Seeing the girls' starry, hungry eyes, she laughed and gave each child a small amount of gold to spend. "You have this much to decide what to buy or pay for yourself, so pick what you like best! After that, I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the next time," she said. "Stay together. And, don't go too far! If you get lost, just stand outside the Bannered Mare!"

"You're a natural."

Miel looked up and saw Alfhild standing next to her. Her son Lars, who was about Sofie's age, had caught up to the girls and gone off with them.

"You're just saying that." They exchanged the holiday greeting and began to chat, Alfhild dispensing advice about motherhood that Bee had certainly heard before but took in differently this time. Bee then inquired about Alfhild's pregnancy, and Alfhild wondered if Idolaf would have to spend more time on the field soon.

"I can't say for certain, but I'm afraid spring will bring battles along with the first buds," Miel said.

"I hope you're wrong, but we can all feel it," Alfhild replied. She laid a concerned hand on her belly.

Just then, a group broke through the crowd and came toward them. It was Idolaf, the twins, the Companion Ria, and another Companion, a Dunmer whom Miel hadn't met yet.

"My darling wife!" Idolaf cried. He swept Alfhild into his arms and kissed her deeply, to everyone's cheers.

"All right, all right," Alfhild said, breaking away from him with a laugh. To the others, she said, "I think I need to find my other boy and put them both to bed. Blessed Old Life, Happy New Life, everyone."

Bee warily watched them walk away. Did the Battle-Borns always mean to leave her with these two? Alfhild had outright asked, in her letters, if the twins were vying for her affection, and Miel had been dismissive. But, she could have sworn the woman had a twinkle in her eye as she herded Idolaf away. Everyone waited for the bells to signal New Life. It was much too early for anyone to be in bed.

Farkas wore a gray tunic under a dark winter cloak with snowy saber fur for a collar, bringing out his pale eyes, which were not ringed in paint for once. His hair had been braided and tied away from his face for the evening, and his beard was neatly trimmed. Vilkas wore a white tunic with a darker gray jerkin under his cloak, which had a collar from the pelt of an ice wolf. He, too, had no paint on and was clean-shaven. His hair was neatly combed back. Bee realized it was the first time she was seeing them out of armor — hunting armor, training armor, or fighting armor — yet the way they looked now was no less imposing.

"What about you?" Farkas said. He gently grasped her arm above the elbow. Bee noticed that he carried a lute. "Where are the whelps?"

"Running wild."

"Miel, this is Athis," Vilkas interrupted. "And, Farkas says you've met Ria — ? They're our shield-siblings. This is Miel, our friend in the Legion."

They shook hands and exchanged greetings. Ria and Athis made small talk, but they were not as interested in talking to some soldier as they were in returning to the party, so they excused themselves shortly, leaving the twins.

I'm done for, Miel thought.

Farkas flagged down a vendor for some ale, and the three of them settled on a small mound overlooking the market for a party of their own. They talked about Miel's fort life, disclosed what they could about their work, and exchanged rumors. Farkas played absently with the lute while Vilkas and Bee talked about books for a bit.

All the while, Bee couldn't tell if she was calming down or waking up. Certainly, the three of them seemed to fall into an easy conversational rhythm. Among the three of them, they knew how to keep things light. But, Miel would be lulled into a feeling of comfort and safety with friends, only for a gleaming eye, a hand on the shoulder or the arm, a suggestive smile, or the rumble in their laughter to unsettle her again. It also didn't help that Farkas continued to flirt unabashedly, or that Vilkas seemed to know all the right questions to ask. She often caught herself studying their faces. Without paint or armor, they looked more than ever like the boys she had known, which only made it harder to ignore that they were now men.

What truly scared her were the occasional nods between the brothers, asking and giving one another some strange, unspoken confirmation. They thought she didn't see them, they were so secure in the secrecy of whatever code this was that it didn't matter, or perhaps they didn't even realize they were doing it. But, it spooked her, dredging up old fears about why they were even talking to her.

In the back of her mind, the thought of war, the sleeping bear awaiting the spring, was almost a relief. It was a shadow to remind her that this was not the best time to entertain more curious thoughts.

Lucia and Sofie reappeared, with Sofie clutching a bundle of copper-colored fur.

"Look, Mama! I have a new friend! Could I keep him? Please?"

Miel shook her head, but she was too warm with ale and conversation to truly deny her.

The bells rang, and the crowd began to cheer. Farkas lifted her off the ground and planted a big, wet, scratchy kiss on her cheek. "Happy New Life!" he barked.

Vilkas, more formal, put one hand on her shoulder and clasped a handshake with the other. "Happy New Life," he said, kissing her other cheek more softly.

The girls began to giggle, and Bee hoped the ale was to blame for how hot her face felt at the moment. She stuck out her tongue. "What are you two laughing about? Come here and give me a hug for New Life."

Farkas then offered, once again, to walk them home, and he offered Lucia a piggyback ride. Miel expected Lucia to be shy, then realized with a pang that the twins likely got to look in at Breezehome more often than she did. She took the lute from Farkas's hands so that he could secure the girl. As they walked, Sofie and Lucia recounted all the colorful amusements they had found during the festival. Sofie asked Vilkas everything he knew about foxes, and he obliged. It was a pleasant distraction from Bee's thoughts.

At the door to Breezehome, as Lucia clambered down from Farkas's shoulders, Bee said, "All right, say Happy New Life to — "

"Uncle," Vilkas offered.

"And get ready for bed."

There was whining and complaining as she nudged the children through the door and extended the lute to Farkas.

"Sing us a song first?" Lucia pleaded.

Farkas grinned and pushed the lute back. "Please?" he said.

"It's New Life, Mama. It's special," Sofie wheedled.

Bee groaned. "All right, but everybody get inside and get warm, or there will be no life."

As she helped the children out of their winter coverings, she became aware of the twins examining the interior of the little house. Vilkas gravitated toward the bookshelf and noted the chessboard perched atop it with a private smile. Farkas looked up in appreciation at the Blade of Whiterun hanging above the door and inspected her Imperial steel weapons in the stand — sharp and shining, no longer the borrowed blades he had seen her wearing out of Helgen. They each had at least six stone on Bee; she couldn't tell if the house was making them look massive or if their sheer presence was only making the house feel smaller.

Nervously, she settled on one of the dining benches and checked the lute's tuning. "One song," she said firmly, as the others found chairs or a spot on the rug.

An old Bretic song came to her. It was something her father had liked to sing to her mother. She remembered hearing it for the first time when he came home from duty, on a festival night like this one. Her audience might not know Bretic, but because of the season, it was what she felt like singing, and perhaps they would think it a pretty melody.

The start was shaky; she was out of practice. But, soon enough, the strings drew her focus, and her heart swelled with the meaning of the words: a stand of trees for a cathedral, the wind for their silken robes, Secunda as their priest, and so on. She forgot where she was and sang, her voice smooth and clear, drawing the little audience into moonlight with her.

Afterward, the children clapped and begged for an encore, but Bee put her foot down and sent them off to their room. Shyly, she handed Farkas the lute back, not wanting to see the way either of them were looking at her just then.

"When do you leave for Neugrad tomorrow?" Vilkas asked, it seemed for the sake of breaking the spell. They had already discussed this.

"After their breakfast," Miel said, nodding at the children's door. Sofie could be heard trying to hush the fox's yips inside.

"We'll leave you to rest, then," Farkas said, rising.

Bee walked them to the door. They all bid each other "Happy New Life" one last time, simply shaking hands, and then the twins began walking back toward the market square.

Upstairs, in her bed, Miel stared up at the ceiling. What in Oblivion had just happened?


	5. Chapter 5

At dawn, Bee was setting out the lamb when there was an urgent banging on the door. Legate Rikke was standing outside.

"Happy New Life, Legate!" Bee said in surprise. "Would you like to break fast with us?"

Rikke glanced past her as a sleepy child came out to see what was going on. The officer winced. "I'm sorry to disturb you on the holiday, Auxiliary, but we need to speak to the Jarl, immediately."

She looked so drawn that Bee didn't dare ask why Rikke didn't go herself. Miel offered her a seat inside by the fire, but she said she'd wait outside.

"What's going on, Mama?" Sofie asked blearily.

Miel's mind began to churn. She tried not to move too quickly as she headed back up the stairs for her uniform armor. Something bad was about to happen, but she didn't want to scare the child.

Sofie followed her into the room. "I'm sorry, sweet one," Miel said, as evenly as she could manage, "but one of my officers is asking me to talk to the Jarl about something. Do you think you and your sister can feed yourselves while I'm up there?"

"You're not going to break fast on New Life with us?"

Bee felt a pang. "I'm sorry, Sofie," she said again, "but you know I can't disobey. Why don't you save me some, and I'll try to catch up?"

Sofie was fully awake now, eyeing her with a mix of fear and disappointment. Bee hurriedly kissed the top of her head.

"I'll see if I can find Lydia outside. Just stay here. I'll be back."

In the street, Rikke spoke in hushed tones to apprise her of the situation. They had to pick their way around litter and a few unconscious merrymakers from the night before.

"Tullius is moving some of our forces toward Fort Greymoor as we speak. By the time Balgruuf reads what's in his missive, he won't complain. You, I suspect, will need to deliver another important message when we are through."

* * *

  
The twins were sitting on a bench under the Gildergreen, enjoying the sunrise, and having some hair of the dog, when they saw the topic of their conversation enter the market square at the side of a Legate. Farkas almost called out a greeting when he saw the taut expression on her face. Vilkas leapt to his feet in concern.

She subtly shook her head. "Not now. Wait," she whispered as they went past.

Within the hour, they saw her rushing down the steps. She was alone, carrying an axe that glinted gold in the early light. Their blood ran cold.

"Miel," Vilkas began carefully, "whose axe is that?"

She wouldn't slow her pace, but her eyes darted around. The city was beginning to rise. A guard was reluctantly beginning his holiday shift. The men quickly matched her steps so that she could keep her voice low.

"This axe," she slowly replied, "came from that keep."

"And, where are you taking it?" Farkas asked.

"North. East."

He and Vilkas stopped in their tracks, and suddenly, Miel looked desperate.

"I can't tarry," she said. "Please — please, can you tell the girls? Tell them — tell them I'll be home later, and I'm sorry. If you can find Lydia so she can watch them — " She paused as though seeing them for the first time, and there was something else to say. Then, she shook her head and took off running toward the gate.

"I'll talk to Kodlak," Vilkas said.

Farkas nodded. "I'll go to Breezehome."

There was a small chance to the contrary, but they felt it in their bones. War was coming to Whiterun.

  
Kodlak summoned all of the Companions to the mead hall. Farkas slipped inside just in time, with Sofie and Lucia. Assured of their safety, Lydia opted to stay in the Plains District to protect the area from looters.

"Get them downstairs," Skjor hissed. "They don't need to hear what the old man's going to say."

"They'll know soon enough," Aela said.

Farkas told the girls to stay behind him and their Uncle Vilkas, and to not say anything. Sofie clutched her fox to her chest.

Kodlak silenced the room. "An Imperial scout carrying Balgruuf's axe has been sent to Windhelm."

A murmur rose from the group, and Skjor barked for silence. Vilkas noticed that Vignar and his manservant Brill were not present.

"There is a chance, a small chance, that the scout will return empty-handed, and our festivities will continue tonight as though nothing has happened. But, we must prepare for the event that Whiterun will be under siege by this day's end."

More murmurs.

Kodlak continued. "One of the few things Companions will not do is join in wars where brothers must fight brothers. This war is just such a one. If there are any of you who wish to retake your old oath as legionnaires, or who believe in Ulfric's cause, then I give you leave to join your brothers in slaughtering one another outside. Now. Go now, if that is how you want to slake your blades."

After some whispers and muttering, a few Companions departed the mead hall. Those who remained would never see them again.

"For the rest of you, though you might chafe at waiting until the battle is done, the task ahead of us is no less honorable."

Kodlak gestured at the girls, who were huddled together on a bench behind the twins. "We may not fight for any Jarl, but we will still protect those who can't protect themselves. Go to the houses and the streets. Offer shelter in Jorrvaskr to the children, the elderly, the weak. If they have cellars of their own, make them stay there. Offer to watch them there if they ask, but all of the Circle must return to stand here by sundown. And if any of you use this task to join the battle, do not bother showing your face in this hall again. Understood?"

"Aye!"

Vilkas went off to perform his duty. Farkas led the girls to the quarters underground. On the stairs, Sofie suddenly jerked back and began to cry.

"I don't want to go down there! I don't like the underground. I'll die there!"

Farkas held the child by the shoulders and tried to hush her. "Listen, I promised your mother I would get you to safety. I can't keep that promise if you don't follow."

"Mama! Where's Mama? Why isn't Mama coming with us?"

Farkas felt a twist in his heart. Sofie was not young enough to cry like this, but she had the look of Vilkas on the day their father had gone off to war, and he knew Bee wasn't the first soldier parent in this poor girl's life. He thought of Bee and the axe, alone on the cold road through Eastmarch, and tasted the child's fear himself.

"Shh, shh. Your mama is out there, doing her job to protect you," he said. "She's a very brave woman, you know, and I'm sure she'll be back.

Lucia came and took Sofie's hand. "I'm scared, too, but we're together," the younger child said.

Njada Stonearm appeared behind them at the top of the steps and tried to push past. "What's wrong with her? Get her in there already; I need my things," she yelled.

Farkas fixed her with a look of steel. "You'd better learn to deal with children quick, Njada, because she's not the only one we'll have crying down there when this day is through. Go do Kodlak's bidding!"

Njada huffed and stepped around them.

Farkas turned back to Sofie, and his tone softened. "You see your little fox? Before he came to live with you, he lived underground. We're going to be like foxes today, all right? We're going to hide until the bears are gone."

Sofie allowed herself to be led into the quarters with Lucia. After a moment's thinking, Farkas put them in Vilkas's room. "You can read Uncle Vilkas's books, except this one," he said, pulling a Crassius Curio tome off the shelf. He kept his voice light, hoping they would never actually need what he was about to suggest. "Your mama gave you daggers, right? Did she teach you how to use them? Well, you can practice on this dummy over here. Then no bear will be able to get you."

Farkas headed for the door. Sofie wailed for him to stay, so he called for Tilma. "I'll be right back, but I still need to make sure your friends are safe, too," he said. "All the other kids you play with, you want them safe, too, right? If you need anything, this is Granny Tilma. She helped take care of me and Uncle Vilkas when we were your age. I bet she has lots of stories."

"So many stories," Tilma said, smiling. "I see everything around here. Would you two like something to eat? I think I made some fresh sweetrolls for New Life. Why don't we go check the lower mess and see if Skjor didn't eat them all?"

Farkas slipped out. He was eager to keep moving, to have things to do. Vilkas came over after depositing some Plains District residents in the big room, and Farkas handed him the book.

"Hope you don't mind, but I put them in your room. Too many bottles in mine."

Vilkas nodded. "You'll want to hide those later. Elders and children on our side. The rest will be in the dormitory, and the lower mess if we need it." He gestured at his doors. "Are they all right?"

"Sofie's a little shaken, but Lucia's bearing up. Where should I go now?"

Vilkas nodded toward the ceiling. "Under Sky, with Kodlak. See how many people our winter stores can cover. If it's not enough, make sure we have a clear path in case we need to sneak past the blockade."

Farkas was off.

In the tunnel off the Underforge, he found Kodlak trying to shift a barrel.

"Ah, Farkas. Good. You can help me tally the foodstuffs."

"You know I'm no good with numbers, Kodlak," he said. "They swim around."

The old man chuckled. "All right, then, how about you move the barrels and boxes about, and I do the tallying? My back isn't what it used to be, lad."

The Underforge had almost no light, but they didn't need it to see. As they worked, Kodlak asked Farkas about the girls. "How did you know to bring them to Jorrvaskr so quickly?"

"Their mother asked me to check on them. They live in the Plains, and they have no cellar."

"I see. And their mother is — ?"

Farkas smiled to himself. He sensed what the old man wanted to know. Or, he thought he did.

"A friend of mine and Vilkas, from when we were whelps. You remember Little Bee?"

Kodlak shook his head. "The name rings a bell, but I'm afraid I never kept track of your playmates. Brolmir was better at that sort of thing, gods rest him."

Brolmir was a Bosmer Companion who had helped to look after them after their father left. Farkas and Vilkas saw Kodlak as a sort of father after Jergen because he had been in their lives the longest. But, many faces in Jorrvaskr had minded them as they grew. Brolmir had been the one to call them in for dinner, send them to bed, wake them for training, and so on.

"Well, we used to play around with her, and then her family went off to High Rock because of her father's posting. She came back in Last Seed, then moved into Breezehome in Sun's Dusk. She's with the Legion, and they keep her busy, so we see her just every few weeks or so."

Kodlak blinked. "Breezehome. She's the Dovahkiin. She's Miel, the scout, the one carrying the axe to Windhelm."

Farkas shoved a crate over with a grunt and lifted the cover of the one underneath. If she were on a horse, she would be nearing the tundra by now, he expected. He imagined strands of dark walnut hair escaping her helmet and billowing about her face in the wind. "Yup."

Kodlak counted the sacks of flour. "That's how you knew to bring the girls. You were there when she told Vilkas."

Farkas nodded, then replaced the cover at Kodlak's signal. He lifted the first crate back on top and opened it, too. "I guess she trusts us with them." As he said it aloud, he felt a small spark of pride in his chest, and he smiled a little.

"She honors you with her trust. It's good to be friends with someone like that," Kodlak said. "What's she like?"

Without thinking, Farkas reached into his side pouch and pulled out a little journal. All people on Tamriel were taught to keep journals, but his didn't have so many words. He flipped it to the last used page. He had done it with a stub of charcoal, while half-drunk under lantern light in the market square in the wee hours, but it was a decent likeness — a rough sketch of Bee serenely playing his lute. He handed it over to the Harbinger.

"She's sharp. Lovely. Sings like a bird. Has a good heart."

He found himself watching Kodlak's face for the old man's opinion. Kodlak smiled faintly and handed the journal back.

"I was hoping you would tell me what she's like on the battlefield, but this is good to know, too."

Farkas felt his face coloring and stuffed the journal back into his pouch. They moved on to a group of barrels, and he began shifting them around.

"I've only seen her fight once, the dragon at the Western Watchtower. She fights well. She dances around, gets in her strikes while the opponent's still trying to get their eyes on her. Light armor, sword and dagger, left-handed advantage. I hear she can even summon arto — atroch — burning daedra now."

Kodlak looked thoughtful and was silent for a while, estimating the weight of the potatoes in the open barrel. "When the conflict is over, I hope you can introduce us," he said.

Farkas promised.

"You know, a Dovahkiin is supposed to be a great hero of the ages," Kodlak said. "If you're lucky, you'll get to witness her great deeds yourself."

Farkas shrugged. "To be honest, I forget that's who she's supposed to be," he said. He lifted up a sack and looked inside. Cabbages. "It's just easier for me to think of her as Bee, back from High Rock. I think I'd be lucky to know her even if that's all she was. I felt lucky just spending Old Life with her and Vilkas last night, in the square. Miel wants to sit with me, and share a bottle of ale with me and my brother on the last night of the year — I don't need to remember that she's the Dragonborn to feel lucky about that."

They had moved to where the salted joints were hanging, and Farkas wiped his sweat while Kodlak counted. Kodlak laid a hand on his shoulder then. "You're a good lad, Farkas. I suspect she appreciates that you can see her that way. But, when the world needs her, you won't be able to keep her to yourself. I mean, think of where she is now."

Farkas didn't answer.

Kodlak sighed. "To speak of trust — does she know about you and your brother, the beast blood that you share? Is she someone who would still raise a glass with you if she knew?"

Again, Farkas had nothing to say.

"Take care during the siege," Kodlak added. "I know you're stronger than your hunger, but the smell of a battle as big as the one to come can be hard to resist." He then dropped the subject, and they began talking instead of additional supplies that Farkas would have to fetch.

* * *

  
Outside the walls of Whiterun, Rikke's squad had a horse waiting for Bee, and she rode as fast as she could for Windhelm.

The roads were eerily empty. Apart from a few wolves and spiders, which she easily outran, Miel rode through Skyrim untouched. She even passed a Stormcloak patrol, and they merely stood by and watched her go.

To think that just the night before, she had been celebrating in the streets. The temple service, the unexpected kisses, the final song — all of it seemed a distant memory, a scene from another life. A chill ran through her as she realized, Ulfric had probably begun moving his troops into position while she was still buying hawk feathers with the girls. She thought of thousands of blue soldiers arriving at the edge of the plains while Whiterun stood radiant and unknowing in celebration.

At the bridge to Windhelm, she leapt off the horse, threw its reins toward the stablehand, and began a steady, solitary march toward the city gates. They had never seemed so cold and imposing.

"Halt! Why does a red soldier approach with her weapon drawn?" one guard called. The other guard drew her own axe and stood at the ready.

"It's a message from the Jarl of Whiterun," Bee said. She wondered if she might suddenly need to use that message to defend herself. But, the guards stood straighter and let her through.

One of them must have spread the word somehow. No one questioned her errand for the rest of her walk to the Palace of the Kings. There was little sign the city had marked the Old Life holiday, which sank any hope that her hunch was wrong.

Inside the great hall, the table was laid for a New Life feast, but no one was eating. Ulfric Stormcloak, whom Miel had last seen at Helgen, was standing before his throne.

If Miel had looked in a picture book of Tamriel's peoples, Ulfric might have been there for the Nords. He was blond, chiseled, and intimidating. He was around her father's age, according to the books, but he retained some of his looks and vigor.

He was arguing loudly with a raspy general, whom Rikke would later point out as Galmar Stone-Fist. The Jarl and the general watched her approach and looked her from head to foot before resuming their conversation. If they sensed her purpose, they would take their time hearing it. Miel supposed she looked no threat to these men. That was a common mistake.

Ulfric's words ballooned into a grand speech about why he was waging this war, and Miel felt it was directed to her as much as to the man in the bear cloak. She could see why others would flock to his cause. His fervor and charisma were undeniable. What a pity he had set it against his own people.

"Do I know you?" he finally asked, taking his seat on the throne.

"I was at Helgen," she answered.

"Ah, yes. Destined for the chopping block, if I'm not mistaken. And yet you wear the colors of the ones who would take your life." Ulfric tutted. "Only a fool would approach a Jarl without a summons, and it seems you're the biggest fool yet. What do you want?"

Miel kept her expression blank, her voice cold. She brought the axe forward, across her palms, but did not bow. "I've brought a message, from the Jarl of Whiterun."

Ulfric stared at the axe for a moment. He snorted, taking it by the handle. He examined the blade with an appreciative look and tested the weapon's heft in his hand.

"You're quite brave to carry such a message," he said. "And you survived Helgen as well. It's a pity you've chosen the wrong side. We could have used one such as you."

He bade her return the axe to Balgruuf, and Miel felt a fire rising in her chest as he placed it back in her hands. It was war.

"We'll be seeing you soon," she said.

"Sooner than you think."

Her ears rang as she turned around and walked away. Outside, her mind raced as she strapped the axe to her body and she began to walk more briskly toward the gate. The children — had the twins found Lydia? If there were catapults, Breezehome could be crushed. Perhaps they could stay in the Battle-Borns' cellar. Would they know to ask, though? Or, was there some protocol Lydia knew to carry out? How could they be safe?

"I'm bringing home war for New Life," Miel lamented to herself.

She considered what she had overheard in the palace. There was no doubt now that Ulfric had intended to take Whiterun during the evening's festivities, not in the spring. Perhaps he meant to show that while the Empire had brought this holiday to Skyrim, it was he and his army who would usher in a true New Life for the people. Or, perhaps he had simply grown tired of waiting. Perhaps he had purposely let enough of his plans become known, precisely for Balgruuf to issue this challenge to set things in motion. He valued Nord tradition, after all.

Miel longed to take the axe back inside and take his head, but she still had a role to play. The Stormcloaks would undoubtedly attack Whiterun whether she returned with the axe or not. She needed to protect her new home.

At the stables, there were two Stormcloak riders waiting, a fresh horse for her between them.

"We're to make sure you relay the message and that none of our brothers get any funny ideas when they see you on the road," one said.

"Of course, you never know. Sometimes, archers can't resist a joke," the other added.

Miel ignored them and got on the horse. They rode hard in single file, with her between them. As they went, they passed hundreds of troops on the road, all heading in the same direction. Miel thought of the half-drunk city she had left that morning and hoped that the forces at Greymoor and Neugrad would be enough to save it.

On the last leg past White River Watch, as the sun began to set, someone loosed an arrow into her horse's flank. Miel seethed as she was forced to goad the animal on through its pain. The battle would begin in the dark, when people were supposed to be celebrating the evening of New Life around the hearth fires. These bastards were ruining the holidays for everyone — for her friends, for her little family, for her city, for this horse.

She saw the Stormcloak tents going up and the catapults rolling into place, and it was all she could do not to call a storm down upon them. She'd been waiting for a chance to try that one, but she wouldn't risk instant retaliation on the city before it was time. Instead, she raised her face to the sky and cried "YOL!" — releasing a great blaze into the heavens as she passed. Her escorts' horses reared and fell back, and she bridled her own to face them, her throat still glowing from her Shout.

"If any of you survive this, let Ulfric Stormcloak know that this will be the last New Life he will ever see. I will make sure of it."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> War violence and a bit of hurt/comfort ahead. As I've mentioned, I haven't written fanfic in years, and I'm also new to AO3; tips on tags, warnings, etc. are appreciated.

The siege of Whiterun lasted only weeks. Stormcloaks from the Rift had indeed attacked Neugrad to cut off the supply of reinforcements, but Miel's commander there, to her credit, was able to hold them off, and support from Falkreath town was quick to arrive. On the open plains, the Imperial troops massed at Greymoor and a rear brought up from the Reach clashed against the Stormcloaks from the Pale and Eastmarch. The city guard and other able-bodied citizens inside manned the walls.

And then, they had Miel, who got her wish and called a storm upon the enemy camp; it crushed half their tents and broke their catapults before they could get more than a few shots into the city. Ulfric ultimately regretted not being at the front, but he would only have learned that her Voice was truly greater than his own.

In the second week, a dragon, drawn by the noise and smell of battle, heard her Shout and issued its own challenge. The fighting between soldiers ceased around the dragon as everyone fought to bring it down. No one knew who struck the final blow, but anyone who had believed the false rumors about Miel now learned the truth, when she claimed its soul before their very eyes.

Even without the Voice, she was hard to kill. Though there were others more skilled with the sword, her temple schooling meant her fighter's footwork was impeccable, allowing her to deftly weave around larger and stronger foes with ease. She was no master strategist, as her games with Vilkas would attest, but on the field, all she needed was her understanding of the body; she knew at a glance where a weak spot would be found, before her opponent even finished their next move, and she thrusted her blades accordingly. The Stormcloaks were more averse to magic, but both sides had a good number of spellswords, and Miel could call on a flaming familiar or atronach for support. When she remembered that she could slow time itself, she was untouchable.

The part of her that still looked to the Divines suspected Kynareth herself — or Kyne, as that old hunter had said — guided her hands and told her where to go. After a battle, she felt as though she had been possessed, what knowledge and training she had before Skyrim augmented by some greater force.

* * *

  
Of course, Miel could not always be so formidable. Each day, the armies would break apart to rest, tend to their wounded, and regroup. Only when she was behind the doors of the Battle-Borns' house, which had been made into a makeshift healing center, did she allow herself to stagger and collapse. Because she healed so quickly, she would then get back on her feet. She would head back out in a sortie if the fighting would continue. At other times, she looked for a Companion who might tell her how the children were, though the answer never varied.

"They are enduring. They wait with the other citizens for your victory."

Underground, in Jorrvaskr, the mood was grim. The people there hung on to any and every word from the outside. Their spirits rose and fell as the tide of the siege went one way or the other. Some began to wonder if they would ever see the sun again. Farkas did his best to amuse the children with drawings or games when he had the time, Vilkas taught a few of the older ones chess and self-defense, and Mikael of the Bannered Mare could calm them with song. But, only the very smallest children were truly oblivious to the clash taking place beyond the walls.

During the siege, the Companions and others who had not joined the battle kept this watch over those who could not fight at all. They also formed water brigades against the catapult fire and carried the wounded to the healers. There were insults and accusations of cowardice, but that was to be expected. They would do whatever else they could, barring taking up their own arms, to support their city.

At a break in the fighting one night, a day or so after the dragon battle, Vilkas was the one Miel found when she pushed out of the healing center for air. He was supporting one of the wounded, and she let them pass.

Vilkas hurried back outside. She was dazed and exhausted, her eyes casting about the street in confusion, but when they found his face, she asked, "How are the people? The children?"

Vilkas steadied her by her shoulders and led her to the tents pitched by the Hall of the Dead. The sight of the bedrolls not two feet from the graves had not been lost on the soldiers. Some of them never woke from rest and were thus conveniently close for the priests of Arkay. But, even with houses in the Wind District apportioned for shelter and healing, there had been few other places for troops to rest before the catapults went down.

Miel saw the tents and began to resist. "No, no, I don't want to lie down."

"Bee, you've been fighting for hours. You need your rest."

"No, please. Take me someplace else. Take me anywhere. Not here."

Her voice shook, and Vilkas realized that she was crying. Quickly, he spotted the gate of Kynareth's temple garden and led her through. Here, too, there were soldiers sleeping, groaning, clinging to life and makeshift pillow. Through the opposite gate, they entered the Dragonsreach courtyard, where Vilkas hoped the sound of the water rushing through its channels would drown out the other noise. He saw a bench by one of the rock walls, gently set Miel upon it, and immediately felt his mistake.

She had no wounds now, but she still smelled of blood. He had managed to keep his urges under control by focusing on the tasks at hand and the sheer number of people around during the siege. Here, however, they were completely alone. Even as he put his arm around her, so that she could cling to his neck and cry until she was spent, he could hear the animal inside him baying for her beating heart.

From the walls, he had sometimes spotted her slicing and slashing through men twice her size, one after the other. Her body seemed indestructible. But, combat took its toll in other ways, and in his arms now, she was as soft and trembling as a rabbit when it felt his teeth closing in.

He wished Farkas were there just then to keep him in check, but the thought of his brother was enough. Farkas would never forgive him.

As her sobs grew quieter, he began to take them someplace else, just as she had asked. He willed himself to focus on his own words.

"Near Falkreath, there's a ridge that looks over Lake Ilinalta. It's hemmed in by rocks and pines, and it's the perfect place for a campsite, or even a house," he said softly. "Farkas and I sometimes go hunting there. Nice thick woods for deer and elk. And if you go at just the right time, the moons light up the lake like a mirror.

"Up north, past Solitude, I've been told there's a cave full of pirates and ships, masts not even touching the roofs of the cave, and just hoards of treasure from all the unfortunates who don't quite make it through the Sea of Ghosts. The pirates are known as the Blackblood Marauders. Some of us are just begging for an excuse to clean them out. But, the cave itself is said to be beautiful in torchlight, with pools of cold, clear water, like an enchanted place out of the children's stories.

"In the Reach, there's a waterfall where a bard once tried to leap into the pool below, and his bones were snapped when he hit the water. They say if you can make it, his ghost will appear and give you a boon. But, the place is swarming with Forsworn, so no one's been able to try — or perhaps people have tried and just haven't lived to tell the tale. I've often seen the spot from the road, though, and wondered what the view of the Karth from up there must be like. I bet it's amazing."

As Vilkas spoke, he could hear her heartbeat slowing. She found his free hand with hers and entwined their fingers as she listened.

"You remind me that Skyrim is beautiful, and not just full of men who want to tear each other apart over that stupid Concordat," she said softly.

Vilkas laughed. The sound of her voice and the touch of her fingers sent the wolf back into the shadows. She looked up at him then, his profile outlined by brazier fire and starlight, and reached up to touch his cheek. He covered her hand and turned to look at her in surprise.

Miel kissed him, delicately at first, then more ardently as he responded in turn. His hunger returned, but he could channel it now that she matched him. He reached forward and lifted her onto his lap so that he could hold her body closer to his own.

She broke from him, and her breath caught in her throat. "Take me someplace else," she said. "Really this time."

He laughed and swore as he looked around them. The cluster of huts across the Gildergreen looked empty; perhaps the destruction of Heimskr's house had scared the residents away. Vilkas happened to know some of them were huddling below Jorrvaskr that very moment. He pulled Bee to her feet. They wove their way through the quarter until his ears told him which house to choose. He assured her it was safe, then shook his head as she took out her dagger and picked the lock.

"Right," she said, stepping into the dark cottage. "I forgot; you can't abide sneaking and trickery."

Vilkas closed and locked the door behind him. "I'll forgive you this once."

He drew close and pushed her towards the bed.

"Do you two have the eyes of Khajiit? How do you do that?" she laughed.

"It's a gift."

As he hovered over her body and his hands found the catches in her armor, he felt her eyes searching his face. "Any questions first?" she asked.

Vilkas had no doubt that she would still be standing at the end of the siege. Still, they felt all the pull of a chance they might not get again.

"No," he said. "Questions can wait."

* * *

  
In the second week of combat, a second dragon came. The snow of the plains that hadn't turned to sludge was red with blood. Bee was in the thick of battle when this scaled interloper cast its great shadow on the field and breathed a new layer of frost upon everyone below.

"Gods above, is this the time?" she cried, wrenching her dagger out of a Stormcloak shoulder. "Do you not see your sibling's bones still littering the ground?"

The soldiers scattered, but berzerk with rage, Bee returned the dragon's roar with her own Shout of fire, taunting it to land. Troops on both sides watched in disbelief as she ran to face it head on, blood streaming off her blades behind her, the atronach in her wake. Some legionnaires and even a few Stormcloaks were inspired to follow.

The other fighters slowed their melee to a standstill as they turned to watch, grateful for the respite, even as they feared the uncertain outcomes. Bee moved like the wind, her blades snaking away from her body to prick between scales and joints and wings.

Suddenly, a rain of arrows came flying from the Stormcloak side. The dragon rose, blowing half of them away with a single wingbeat, but leaving enough to kill Bee and the soldiers with her.

"Feim!" she cried, just as half a dozen arrows landed in the grass behind her, whistling through her ghostly form. The atronach exploded into waves of fire.

Cheers erupted from the archers' ranks. Immediately, Miel realized that Galmar Stone-Fist had thought to kill the dragon and her along with it, no matter if some of his own men were also at her side.

The cheering died soon enough as her flesh began to reappear. Her mind clawed for an insult as she began to move toward them, but she didn't need one. The dragon, also offended, dove and covered them with a blizzard. Now, there could be only one target, the one snapping Stormcloaks up in its maw. Miel stood back to watch them fight while a pair of Legion shield-bearers and a hammerman ran up to her side. She conjured, but even the atronach seemed content to wait.

The dragon rose for a third and final time, landing with a blast of cold close by. Miel and her little unit immediately set upon it. It was time to finish the job. Stormcloaks, not wanting to lose their kill, ran to join the fray. Together, they hacked and bashed and bludgeoned their common enemy. In the end, it was the hammerman who grounded the dragon for good.

Standing by the battered skull, the breath of another ancient soul still rushing through her, Miel turned to face the Stormcloaks who had joined her and pointed at them with her blade. "Do you see what we can do together?" She then pointed at her comrades in red, and the atronach raised its arm to fire. "Or will you insist on being the next to face us and die?"

Some of the Stormcloaks immediately laid down their arms, but others turned and ran for their camp. Those who had been in combat before the dragon's arrival broke away and retreated, too. Bee felt the knowledge of another Word flowering in her mind and in her lungs, and for the first time ever, she sent the frost after their retreating backs. "It's going to get very cold on the losing side!" she called.

As the legionnaires cheered, Miel and the unit returned to the safety of the ranks with their new prisoners. She felt the mix of heat and cold and rage begin to leach from her body. She looked over at the other side and thought she saw Galmar watching her. She thought of the all the arrows and how they would have pierced and pinned her to the ground. A new chill swept through her, and she had the feeling they would lock weapons before the war was over.

* * *

  
The tide had turned against the Stormcloaks. Not a few days later, a third dragon was sighted in the sky. This one was black and more dreadful than any they had ever seen. Miel saw it and felt her blood run cold; it was the destroyer of Helgen Keep. Everyone watched it out of the corner of their eye, but it merely hovered at the edges of the valley, out of reach, as though only savoring the scenes of bloodshed.

Not wanting to see if it would make up its mind, Galmar finally ordered a retreat. They could ignore the dragon and attempt to focus on the siege, only for the monster to consume their forces as well as the Legion's. Or they could fight it and slay it, only to help the Dragonborn gain even more power for the red army.

Until the end of his days — which was nearing, though he didn't know it — Galmar would question this decision. Shortly after the last of his forces had left the plains, he received word that the dragon had disappeared. In another day or two, perhaps they would have broken through Whiterun's walls at last, securing the city that would have won them the war. On the other hand, who was to say that another beast would not have swooped in to claim more of his men? Ulfric reassured him that he had done his best, but Galmar wondered.

Inside, he mourned the fact that the Dragonborn was fighting for the Empire. His love of tales and history had helped him to locate the Jagged Crown, only for this Miel of Camlorn to steal it for Elisif. He felt forsaken and confused, knowing he stood against the very sort of hero he had only imagined before. But he, knew, too, that the Dragonborn always arrived with doom, and he could cling to the dream that defeating her would save them all and free his people.


	7. Chapter 7

Bee spent a few days after the battle in Whiterun to ensure that the children were all right and Breezehome was in good order. She would not be returning to Fort Neugrad but to Castle Dour, where Tullius wanted to plan the next campaign, and there was no telling once more when she would be back.

The night before her departure, the city threw a feast to celebrate the victorious defense of their city and to pick up where they had left off for New Life. This was a more sedate affair than Old Life's carousing in the street, and not simply because Jarl Balgruuf himself joined the festivities in the square. Lives had been lost, and homes, destroyed. But, it was still as joyous as they could make it. Those that were there were alive. They would see the new year. The first planting was still ahead of them.

Bee and the children were seated at the great table with the Jarl and his family. Avenicci had sent a few gowns to Breezehome for the evening, but she chose to wear her uniform armor, same as the other soldiers who were now garrisoned in the city. Anything that might allow her to stand out less, now that she wasn't caught up in the heat of combat, seemed a comfort.

The Companions stayed at the fringes of the party or did not attend. They were still part of Whiterun, but that was precisely why others disagreed with the way they had spent the siege. Vilkas would have stayed in Jorrvaskr if he and Farkas had not known that Bee was leaving the next day. They had not said more than a few words to one another, busy as they had been with cleaning up after the siege. Surrounded by officers and Jarl's men, she had little chance of talking to them, but it was still good to see her.

Miel was smiling and listening politely as Balgruuf explained something to Lucia with the movements of nuts and cups on the table. The three of them then laughed at something Lucia said. Sofie was showing her fox to Balgruuf's eldest, Frothar, who was begging to hold it. Dagny and Nelkir simply looked bored.

"Such a handsome family they'd make, don't you think?"

Farkas saw Ysolda, the apprentice trader, standing to the side with a barmaid from the Drunken Huntsman.

"One of the maids up at Dragonsreach says the cook heard the steward suggest that the jarl propose to her when all the fighting's over."

The brothers exchanged looks. Idle talk, if they'd ever heard it, but as it concerned their friend, they couldn't help listening.

"Why would the steward suggest that?" the barmaid said.

"Well, why not?" Ysolda replied. "He's a powerful man; she's a powerful woman. They're not married. The people love them. Imagine how good it would be for Whiterun to have the two of them together. He may be old enough to be her father, but he's still a catch."

Farkas snorted. "I'd say she's the catch. She's a dragonslaying war hero, and she has the Thu'um."

The women glared at him for eavesdropping, but Ysolda bit. "Well, yes, and that's exactly why he should marry her. Just think of what it would do for his chances at High King."

It was Vilkas's turn to be scornful. "Balgruuf doesn't want to be High King."

"Maybe so," the barmaid said, pointing a finger at Vilkas with her cup in her hand, "but a lot of Nords prefer him to that doll Elisif."

"Yes," Ysolda continued excitedly. "Do you think the Jarls would still choose Elisif at the moot, if they knew they could have Balgruuf and a Dragonborn Queen?"

"Balgruuf wouldn't even get to choose," the barmaid added. "Once they've voted for you, you have to be King."

Farkas shook his head. Even then, Kodlak's words in the Underforge echoed in his mind. He suddenly felt small. "The Jarl of Solitude is always King."

"Yes," Vilkas put in. "If the Empire wins the war, they'll expect to keep their ties to Skyrim through Solitude."

Ysolda insisted. "If the Empire wins the war, they'll have to compromise to keep the Nords happy. And if that's what the Nords want — " she gestured at the scene of the Jarl's table " — we should have it."

Balgruuf was looking at Miel intently as she spoke. She wore an open, polite expression, and the brothers were too far away to hear; she could have been describing anything between Camlorn court dealings and a recipe for goat. Balgruuf nodded and smiled appreciatively. Vilkas had an image of the two of them in the Jarl's chambers, going over the day's rulings and events together before going to bed for the evening.

"This is why I hate politics," he muttered.

Farkas grumbled. "Well, I don't see an Amulet of Mara on him, and the war's not over yet. And also, I don't know that the Dragonborn would be happy, floating around the keep all day as some Jarl's second wife."

Ysolda scoffed. "What do you know? Who are you to the Dragonborn?"

The brothers blinked.

"I'm — we're her friends," Farkas managed.

The women rolled their eyes. "Sure," the barmaid said. "You and half the fighting men and women here tonight. You're not even a soldier. You — you and you — you're those Companion fellows the girls are always going on about. A different one every other week. You probably don't know the first thing about making a wife happy."

Farkas tilted his head. "Some wives would disagree," he said.

Ysolda's mouth dropped open, but the barmaid and Vilkas burst out laughing. The mood lightened in an instant.

Shaking her head, Ysolda pulled her friend away toward a group of soldiers, but not before the barmaid told them to ask for her at the Huntsman next time.

Vilkas looked back at the Jarl's table. Bee and the children were gone. He tapped his brother on the arm.

Suddenly, there were little hands going around Farkas's waist, and Lucia's head popped out from behind.

"Uncle Vilkas, Uncle Farkas," Sofie pleaded, "make Mama let us stay at the party! I'm not sleepy at all, but she doesn't believe me!"

Bee was standing behind Sofie with her hands on the girl's shoulders. She was smiling.

"I saw you talking to Ysolda and her friend just now. Did things not go well?" she teased.

Vilkas's mouth twitched. "Things are much better now," he replied.

"Yes," Farkas added, "now that Jorrvaskr's foxes are here!" Lucia laughed as he took her up on his back. "Oof, how many taffy treats did you take from the Jarl's kids, huh? How did you get so heavy all of a sudden?"

Bee laughed. Around them, more and more party-goers were beginning to look at them and whisper, and she grew silent again.

"Would you Companions kindly escort us home?" she said, a little loudly.

Vilkas raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Dovahkiin. Whatever you need." The children giggled.

"I can handle it myself, of course, but the children are so partial to you after you took such good care of them during all the fighting outside."

Vilkas understood what she was doing, and he was grateful. The public's judgment of the Companions would have faded over time, as need for their services overtook pride. But, having the Dragonborn's favor would help speed that along. Farkas made sure to nod at Ysolda as they made their way out of the square.

As they walked down to Breezehome, they talked about various little things, but the adults were thinking to themselves about all that was still unsaid. Was this a night for saying some of it? When they reached the door of the little house, she invited them in for another bit of mead. They went in because it seemed there was a chance, yet they also knew there could be none.

"I'll have to leave Lydia some money for a chess book; it's all Sofie wants to play now," Bee said.

They sat at the fire and spoke in hushed tones; the children's room was so close by.

"She's sharp, that one," Vilkas said "It might be strange, but I think looking at battles on the board helped her to be less scared of the battles outside. She thinks of you as the queen."

Farkas grunted, and Vilkas realized what he'd said, but Bee laughed.

"What an idea," Bee said. "Does she know most queens have other people to do their fighting for them?"

"She says it's because you go wherever you need to be for the king," Vilkas said.

Bee winced. "I don't know if I should be proud or sad."

"Well, they're proud," Farkas said, nodding at the door to their room.

The conversation then turned to the repairs needed around the city. As Farkas and Vilkas began debating how the city should deal with Heimskr's shattered house, Bee considered her friends in thoughtful silence.

Her mind ran through the reasons she had invited them inside. Politeness and hospitality, of course. Gratitude, for keeping the girls safe, for writing to her and brightening her time at Neugrad, and also for not being strange about their past interactions.

Curiosity. Some part of her did want them to be strange about it, to have something to say.

Selfishness, perhaps. Greed. She was lonely. She was drawn to them both. So far, they each had gone along with her when the opportunity struck. Miel actually hoped there would be more such opportunities as the war progressed. But, what then?

"What happens when the war is over?" she asked.

"Well, perhaps they'll let Heimskr go and turn a blind eye — or ear, rather, to his ranting. The shrine outside just doesn't feel the same without him," Vilkas suggested.

"No, I mean — " her voice trailed off. The twins exchanged looks. It had been bound to come, sooner or later.

"Farkas, when we were — at the Huntsman, you said there'd be no expectations if that's what I wanted. Vilkas, that night during the siege — no, this feels unfair." She dropped her face into her hands. When she lifted it again, she looked a bit fearful. She glanced at the door to the girls' room.

Farkas leaned forward. "Why don't we step back outside?"

Bee picked up another bottle. They went to a low stone wall that set the house off from the side street, out of sight of the main street and facing Warmaiden's. Vilkas took the bottle from Bee's hands and distributed its contents among their mugs. They raised a silent toast and drank. She tried again.

"When I'm with you — either of you, both of you — I feel a certain way. I can't name it because I'm afraid to name it, because of everything that's going on. We are friends, yes?"

They were quick to say so.

She slowly continued. "I sometimes find myself wondering if there's more than that, and then I stop myself wondering, because there's just no time. I claim no expectations, but inside, I want to be able to have them. Yet, I feel that I can't. I shouldn't. There's a war going on. There are children here. Even if you feel the same, what can we promise one another? What do I have to offer if I can't be here for you?

"The fact there are two of you, and that you're brothers, just makes it even more confusing. This is a conversation I'd have with each of you, separately, but you're both here. Am I supposed to choose? Why am I even thinking about such a choice? I don't even know if the choice is there, or if what we had those nights was the whole of it, and I'm wasting my breath.

"Oh, gods. This is stupid. Can you forget I said all of that? Can we just go back to being familiar faces and pretend nothing has ever happened?"

"Is that what you want?" Vilkas asked.

Farkas laughed. "I can't go back. I was never where back is. I've been interested since I saw you that day you came out of Riverwood. I practically adored you when we were pups."

Bee smiled ruefully. "I don't want to hurt you, but you seem interested in everyone, Farkas."

They all laughed, but her eyes said she wanted to believe him.

Farkas sighed, letting his frustration show, for once. "I'll admit, I like to have a good time. I don't let a chance for one go by if I can grab it," he said. "I know that makes it hard for people to take me seriously. But, I can be serious, if I know that's what you want."

Vilkas tentatively put a hand on Miel's shoulder. "We've been taking our cues from you. Perhaps we should have said more, but it's like you said; there's so much going on."

He lifted his hand away and laughed uneasily, pushing his hair back. "We've been at a stalemate all this time. My brother likes to make his intentions so plain that they become doubtful, I hold onto and even deny mine until it's clear they'd be accepted, and you, rightfully, guard yourself because nothing is clear." He paused. "I would have written more in my letters if I'd known you wanted to read more in them, Miel. But, I didn't know if we had room for more with the war going on."

Silently, they reflected on their implied confessions. Above her head, Farkas and Vilkas exchanged a look, and she felt that touch of secrecy again. These looks, the circles in which they were going, the way these two seemed united at something, the way they had been looking to her to settle the questions — her heart sank as another question began to bud. The fear that could never stay buried was breaking through.

"The two of you — " Bee gestured between them " — don't seem bothered by the fact that you're both here. I don't know if you've noticed, but there is only one of me." She didn't laugh when they did. "Alfhild asked me if there's some kind of competition between you, and the idea makes me feel — wait, let me try again."

She took a breath, willing her panic to subside. "You know about me, but you haven't said anything about it since the Bannered Mare. I suppose that's because we keep our letters short, and we've gone over that now." She found herself struggling to keep her voice from shaking. "But, part of me is wondering if the only reason you both have been so kind to me is because of what you know. People hear you're Dibellan, or even a former Dibellan, that you gave yourself to her, and they expect you to give yourself to just anyone."

There were sounds of protest, but she pressed on. "I haven't exactly been fortunate with love since leaving the temple. It's like I've been cursed. People I shouldn't have been with. People I maybe should have, but pushed away. People who played a long game," she said, looking at Vilkas, "and left once they'd won."

"Miel, we're not — "

"I want names," Farkas grumbled.

"It's been easier to just have fun, seize the moment and let it be just that, a moment. I still believe there's nothing wrong with that, if everyone involved agrees. But — " she gestured back at the house " — by my strange luck, I've got a home here now. I keep seeing you two, and not least because I purposely seek you out. When I allow myself to think about after the war, I find myself hoping you'll still be around, even if I don't know how things might actually work out among the three of us. So, before I keep thinking about it, I need to ask. Are you two playing a game?" Her voice broke. "Is there some sort of wager? Do you plan to pass me back and forth like I'm — "

More protests. Instinctively, they both tried to touch her, to reassure her, but she pushed them off, and they were silent. After a while, she picked the bottle up and poured for the three of them, but there was no toast. Farkas stewed, tapping the sides of his mug in thought. They could hear people still celebrating at the Huntsman and up the street in the square.

Vilkas tried. "I don't know what I can say to convince you, but the truth is not so sinister, Bee. The simple fact is that we both like you, and neither of us cares that the other likes you, too."

"There's no dibs, no 'I saw her first', no trying to get in each other's way," Farkas added. "Do you remember, I told you at the Mare about relationships with Companions? Well, we were raised by Companions, and we are Companions, and we're actual brothers, so that's how we've handled things since we were young."

"Usually, if we find we're both interested in the same woman, we try to explain it to her early on," Vilkas said. "But, with all that's already demanded of you, you've been sort of hard to pin down."

"Well — " Farkas began, grinning.

"Come on, Farkas," Vilkas muttered.

"Don't you start!" Bee nearly yelled. Still, she found herself biting her lip to keep from smiling at his cheek.

Finally, she looked at them again, curiously. "You really don't get jealous?"

"There's always a little jealousy," Vilkas admitted. "It wasn't as easy when we were younger." He thought in particular of a woman from when they were 19 or 20. "But, we're family, by blood and by steel. There are things about our way of life — " he saw his brother subtly shake his head " — uh, as mercenaries that don't allow us to get too attached. So, if one of us does find someone to be with, for however long, we try to be happy for them, even if we might like that someone ourselves."

He reached past Miel's back to clap his brother on the shoulder. "Come a time we have our backs together and our swords drawn against the world, we'll know we can depend on each other. No woman comes between us."

"Well — " Farkas began again. Vilkas shot him a warning look, and he laughed. Miel willed herself not to think about that one and failed. If she knew they could sense her blood rushing to her face in the dark, she would have wanted the ground to swallow her up.

"You're your own woman, Bee," Farkas stated. "If you wanted to pick me today and him tomorrow, I couldn't stop you. Your choice is yours. You've lived here long enough to know, life in Skyrim's too tough and too short to waste on things like jealousy and blame. I'll probably just find someone else to console me, like that new barmaid at the Huntsman," he said with a mock sigh.

Bee laughed.

Vilkas shook his head. "We also know you don't have a lot of time like tonight." He glanced up at the stars. "You should have been in bed hours ago. So, whoever you do choose to spend your time with, however you choose to spend it — whether you're here in Whiterun with the children, or with us, even just one of us, or some lucky soldier out there — we leave it up to you."

"Just know that if you're around, and I'm around, I'm up for whatever you have in mind, for however long you've got," Farkas said.

"Whatever you have in mind," Vilkas repeated, more slowly, quietly, in her ear, "that's what you can expect."

Miel felt a prickle at the base of her spine.

"And, after the war?" she asked.

Farkas shrugged, though inside, he had his own hopes. "Same thing. You could come home here forever. You could go back to High Rock. You could marry Balgruuf and become the Queen. It's all up to you."

"But, I'm fine with waiting for after the war to know what happens after the war," Vilkas added, taking her hand, "and making do with what we can have in the meantime."

Miel was quiet as Farkas emptied the bottle into their cups.

She had a rich library of experiences regarding the number and variety of her partners at the temple. Young, curious, and zealous, she had erred on the side of freedom when it came to sharing the blessings of ardor. They were all transient encounters, fireworks rather than fires, until her partner came along and she swung hard to the other end of the spectrum of freedom and commitment.

Some of the acolytes claimed multiple serious lovers, and while she understood it in principle, she privately thought it was only free ardor in different clothing. Miel's thoughts on such relationships were colored by the fact that her mentor and her partner had both tried to convince her to simply forgive their deceit and "expand" the relationship into such an arrangement. But, Miel hardly believed it could be an arrangement if only two of the parties did the arranging.

What Farkas and Vilkas were describing now seemed to fall somewhere between free and serious, a space that she still struggled to understand. Bee could handle free; she knew free; free would work very well for someone with all her obligations. Free was the most she could offer or expect when goodness knew how many battles still lay ahead. But, this was Farkas and Vilkas. She felt strongly that they deserved serious, though there was still so much she didn't know about them. Deep down, she wanted serious herself. She just didn't know yet what that would look like, or how it could even be possible.

Maybe she'd choose one and hurt the other. Maybe they'd get tired of her. Maybe this was all still part of a game. For all the things that had become clear tonight, she felt the three of them were still where they were before — waiting for the war to stop dampening even the possibility of hope. At least, she had a new reason to use her power to end the fighting quickly.

"I'll live with making do," she said at last, resolved, to herself as much as to the twins. "It's better than nothing. I think — I do like you. I want to see where this goes."

Farkas leaned in and kissed her gently on her cheek. "It won't be nothing," he said.

"But, it should be the same for you, too," she added quickly. "Spend your time with whoever you want. Don't — don't wait around." If they moved on, maybe it would hurt a little less.

Farkas brushed her arm with his knuckles, and she realized that she was gripping her cup too tightly. "Can I ask for one thing?" she said.

"Name it," Vilkas answered.

"Will you still write to me?"

Farkas raised his mug. "Done."

"Agreed."

They touched cups one more time and drank. Miel sighed, suddenly feeling lighter, warmer.

"You think I'd marry Balgruuf and become Queen?"

Farkas grinned. "Ysolda and that barmaid I mentioned think it's possible."

She thought of the man for whom she'd carried so many messages to and from Dragonsreach, and she wrinkled her nose. "It'll never happen. Balgruuf has been exchanging letters with I— " she clapped her hand over her mouth.

"No, who is it? Irileth?"

"Ingun Black-Briar?"

"Idgrod the Younger?"

"Idgrod the Older?"

"I'm not telling! I said nothing. Enough. I'm going to bed."

The men stood, and Farkas helped her to her feet. "You want some company?" he said, his smile crafty.

"Remember," Vilkas put in, whispering low, "you have choices."

Bee groaned. "Gods, Vilkas, don't tell me you're as bad as him."

They each kissed her, not too long, and also not long enough, and then walked her to Breezehome's door.

"I'm glad we talked," Miel said, struggling to keep her voice even. "So. Till next time."

"Till then."

"Good night."


	8. Chapter 8

It was a few days since the Dragonborn left Whiterun. The Circle was meeting in the Underforge before a hunt. They were going over potential contracts and trying to determine the size of the dent their reputation had taken from the siege.

"It's not too bad," Skjor said. "The Stormcloak holds seem to like it. Those who don't support the war at all still need our help, and the citizens we helped shelter here will remember." He nodded in the twins' general direction. "Let's hope the good word of your little letter friend on the front lines will help with the rest."

Farkas ignored the bait and loudly cleared his throat. Aela nodded at him. He held up a piece of parchment. "Speaking of Stormcloaks, we've got this from the Palace of the Kings. It looks like, in the mess at Whiterun, Ulfric's boys left Gallows Rock ripe for the picking. Some bandits have moved in. We've been asked to evict them."

Kodlak sighed and shook his head. "We've been over this, lad. No forts until the war is over. Ulfric probably wants it for another attempt at Whiterun, and we've angered enough Imperial loyalists as it is. Best to stick to smaller jobs and hunting for now, and keep our heads down."

Aela stepped forward. "You'll want to think about this one, Kodlak," she warned. "Based on what's written here, it sounds like Krev's operation."

Vilkas inhaled through his teeth. The Harbinger sighed and rubbed his temples with one hand.

In the twins' memory, apart from the Circle, there were few Companions more dedicated than Krev. Some thought him unstable even then, but it was easy to chalk his rantings up to eccentricity; he always put his heart into training and did his jobs to the letter. He knew as much about Companions lore as Vilkas. Indeed, Vilkas remembered many nights, in the mead hall or on the porch, when they talked endlessly about their predecessors' exploits. To Krev, Ysgramor and the Five Hundred were practically divine.

He came up for promotion some years before the war — perhaps a year or so before the twins joined the Circle themselves. To say that Krev rejected it was an understatement. He tried to kill his would-be forebear in the Underforge and fled Whiterun through the streets, screaming about traitors and werewolves.

Most who witnessed it dismissed it as madness — Krev the oddball had finally snapped — but enough believed him to eventually form the clan called the Silver Hand. They moved from place to place, supposedly hunting werewolves, but they harassed Companions and common folk alike. They were seen as no better than bandits, run by a kook. But, now, it seemed the chaos of the civil war had granted them a proper base at last.

"Kodlak, having his own fort will only make it easier for Krev to gather followers," Vilkas said. "Maybe we ought to finally deal with him." His voice faltered. Krev might yield and simply go to prison, but Vilkas doubted it. He just didn't like the idea of killing an old friend.

Skjor snorted. "I'm not afraid of Krev and his pack of fanatics. I actually prefer knowing right where they are. We can take them out when we feel like it. And, calling a skeeverhole like Gallows Rock a fort is a joke. Let Ulfric take it back himself if he needs it so badly."

Kodlak then looked at Farkas, who shrugged. "You know I'll go with whatever you say, Harbinger."

Aela scoffed.

"No forts," Kodlak said.

Farkas tossed the contract and two others into the fire, and they moved on.

* * *

  
When the meeting ended, everyone in the Circle headed for the tunnel, but Kodlak declined to join them and returned to the mead hall.

"What's with the old man?" Aela asked.

Skjor sighed. "Nothing. He's just being old," he said impatiently.

Vilkas frowned. Kodlak had long stopped taking jobs and only left Whiterun to hunt — with bow and dagger, or as a beast — or to do a bit of sightseeing in the countryside. He still served as Harbinger because he had the most wisdom for the job, but he was otherwise retired. Still, nobody liked being reminded that their mentor was getting on in years, least of all the twins. They supposed the old man would have had to stop sometime. They just hadn't expected he would miss the first hunt of the new year.

They all sensed, too, that Skjor wasn't telling them something. But, seeing their looks, the next eldest in the Circle shook his head. "Kodlak is fine. He just doesn't feel like hunting tonight. Can we go, while the night is young? We still have a trek ahead of us."

Spring was not quite there yet. With snow still on the ground, they could not shapeshift without risking their wolf forms being spotted, so the Circle hiked in their armor to Korvanjund.

The old ruin was of no interest to anyone now. The Jagged Crown was gone. Looters had cleared the place of any other significant treasure. They could safely stash their gear behind some pillars and rubble in the main chamber, before going on their hunt. The forest waited just next door.

As Farkas shed his clothes, he couldn't help thinking of how he was standing in a place Miel had been. He imagined her fighting soldiers on the chamber steps. He wondered what she was doing and if she was all right. She was probably all right.

After Whiterun, she'd been promoted to Quaestor, assigned to Legate Rikke's own unit, and sent to the field. Her new rank granted a small but precious privilege: to name priority senders of personal mail. Anything from Breezehome or Jorrvaskr was now sure to find her through Imperial courier, though there was no telling how long it would take.

For security's sake, she could not tell them much about where she was. But, Farkas and Vilkas pieced together enough to guess that she was likely somewhere right here, in the Pale. The Legion's camp was probably much closer to Solitude than to Korvanjund, but thinking she was somewhere "nearby" still added a thrill to an already much-anticipated evening.

Aela happened to have an extermination contract for Shrouded Grove. Jarls didn't interest themselves in the actual handiwork as long as the job was done, so that was where they would find their prey for the evening. After weeks of being tormented by the smell of blood from behind the Whiterun walls, what ecstasy it was to be out in the sharp night air! The harsh wind that buffeted their bare faces before was now a welcome hand, running through their thick fur and carrying a million scents, waiting to be chased through the trees. Skjor was the first to change and let out a terrifying howl, which the rest of the Circle were quick to answer. Spriggans, saber cats, and even a troll awaited them, but none would be a match for the blood-starved pack.

* * *

  
Farkas craved deer, not cat. After they were through shredding the prey in the cave, he ventured out again, eastward, through the trees.

His ears pricked up at the sounds of steel clashing, and his nose caught the scent of blood — humans and a bear. Well, if they didn't want the bear, he wouldn't mind having it instead of deer. It was always better to hunt the prey down himself, but if he didn't catch anything else soon, he would change back, and he didn't want to stray too far from the rest of the Circle if that happened.

He followed their smells, the smell of people who had been in their armor too long, stale and sweaty despite the cold, and the smell of a snow bear, disturbed from hibernation. Farkas suspected it was an erstwhile Shrouded Grove resident, chased out by the saber cats or enchanted by the spriggans. He climbed up the ridge overlooking the fight.

They were on the road, not too far from the Nightgate Inn: a legionnaire, tangling with a Stormcloak scout while trying to fend off the bear at the same time. The red soldier's blood smelled like any other blood at first, but it made Farkas think of mountain flowers and tree blossoms, the spring that was to come, the spring when all the prey that had slept would wake and be chased again. His mouth began to water. He tried not to eat people if he could help it, but this person smelled an awful lot better than the bear. Maybe he'd make an exception if she didn't make it through the fight. Maybe he'd even head down there and lend the bear a claw.

She.

Just as it dawned on him, Farkas felt teeth sink into his shoulder, and he roared, causing the fighters to stop and look up. He glimpsed her look of alarm before the teeth dragged him out of sight, behind the ridge. Vilkas was pulling him back toward the cave. He snarled and jerked and bit his twin back, forcing a release, but then he shuddered and cried out as his body began to change again. Vilkas barked, and Farkas scrambled to his feet and ran for Shrouded Grove, through the trees.

He staggered into the cave, where a fire had been lit. The remains of the cats and trolls littered the inside. Aela was inspecting a corpse to see if the pelt could be salvaged.

Vilkas roared and began to change, too.

"You bit me!" Farkas yelled, when his brother was standing before him again. They weren't above play-fighting as wolves, but this had been a bite to hurt.

"Well, you bit me, too, so I think we're even!"

Farkas could see the punctures in his twin's shoulder — a new way they matched now. He winced at the thought that he could have gotten Vilkas in the face. Their jaws could shatter skulls.

"Do you know what you could have done?" Vilkas ranted. "You could have hurt her; you could have been seen; they might have killed you! By Ysmir, Farkas, what were you thinking?"

"I was just watching! I was after the bear; I was waiting for them to finish fighting; I wasn't going to touch her — "

"You were slobbering, Farkas; just admit it! You were thinking it!"

"Shh! Shut up! Shut up!" Aela hissed.

There were footfalls at the mouth of the cave. Then, Skjor entered the firelight with Aela's things. They all sighed with relief, but he held a finger to his mouth and headed back out.

"Dragonborn! Strange to see you here. What can I do for you?"

Aela's eyes widened, and then she hissed at the twins. "Did you lead her to us? Did she see you?"

"Shh!"

"Yes, that was me. Skjor, by the way; I don't think we've been introduced. I've been hunting this monstrous wolf. Just massive. But, I chased it all the way back to this cave and killed it. Do you want to see?"

Farkas shrank. His eyes frantically searched the cave for hiding spots. Aela began to dress quickly.

"No," Miel was saying, "it's just — I swear, I thought I heard Farkas just now. Like he was hurt. Then I went up to look, and there was blood, these strange prints — I was worried — "

"Yes, that was me. Me and the wolf. Quite a tussle, phew! He got me, but I took him down and am all healed up now. Sorry it scared you. Just me, hunting, for lack of sleep."

Miel was silent.

"Would you like — " Skjor began. His tone changed, became more inviting. "I've got a fire going inside the cave. You could come in, warm up a bit."

"Uh — no. No thank you. I've got somewhere else to be."

"All right. Well, I'll give the lads your regards."

"Oh. Thank you. Thank you, Skjor."

"You take care now!"

Another half hour passed in silence. The brothers stewed, drinking potions for their bites and exchanging dirty looks.

Finally, Skjor strode back into the cave. His voice was stern and scolding. "Has it been so long since our last hunt that you've forgotten about the time? You should have come here, or gone back to Korvanjund before you changed; then maybe this wouldn't have happened! How could you be so sloppy?"

Farkas ran a hand over his face. "Everything was happening fast, all right?" he said quietly. "The smells were — I couldn't think."

"As usual," Aela drawled.

"Well, you're lucky she didn't see you change. And, you're lucky she had places to be. I don't think she bought my story; I don't have a scratch on my armor!" Skjor said.

"How are we going to get our things?" Vilkas asked.

Skjor jerked his head toward the cave entrance. "Farkas can get them, since he doesn't have a problem being seen. She's gone now, anyway."

Despite the circumstances, Farkas felt a pang. They had missed her.

Skjor said, more evenly, "I followed her for a bit to make sure she wasn't coming back. She went back to the road to take care of the Stormcloak."

"Take care of him?" Farkas asked.

The older Companion shrugged. "Pulled the body to the side. Arranged it sort of nice. Respectful. She kept saying sorry; seemed real torn up about it. I heard her say it wasn't supposed to happen. Seems strange, given they were fighting just before you came along. Might be, the bear had something to do with it." Skjor paused. "She started heading west, then she stopped to look here. Probably thinking of checking the cave herself still. Maybe joining me by the fire," he teased. "But then, she kept running west, and after I was sure, I came back."

He smirked. "Imagine if she'd found you both buck naked in here with Aela." He put on his best impression of Farkas, which was not too far off. "I'm sorry, sweet Bee! I can explain! It's not what it looks like!"

Farkas let out a long groan at the very thought. Aela laughed, mockingly. Vilkas was not amused.

Skjor grew more serious, questioning. "I know you three have got your little dance going, but what happens if she comes back to Whiterun all ready to play house?" he asked. "You expect her and those little girls to believe their uncles just like to go hunting in the middle of the night?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Vilkas said.

"You could bring her over the bridge," Aela said thoughtfully. "She looks strong, right, Farkas? Dragonborn would probably shoot right up the ranks of the Companions. It would be nice to have a sister in the pack."

Skjor snorted. "There's an idea." He got up again to leave the cave, and Farkas stood to follow. "No, no. I'll get your stuff. We can't risk you becoming a real icebrain. But, you owe me. Maybe three contracts, and I keep the money."

Vilkas made a sound of protest, but Farkas hushed him. "Fine." Skjor left them to brood and sulk by the fire. Aela unfurled a bedroll and tried to nap.

There was an idea. It's not that Farkas hadn't thought about it before; in fact, he'd thought about it many, many times. But, hearing Aela herself suggest it seemed to make it more of a possibility.

Bee would fit right in at Jorrvaskr. She fought well, she knew how to get along with people, and she understood honor. And, what crew or guild didn't want the Dragonborn among their ranks? The Legion would probably try to keep her, but really, she could go anywhere, and she seemed to like Whiterun most of all.

Then, Farkas thought about how she'd take the beast blood. Like Vilkas, he'd seen her fight at Whiterun. Something fearsome took over her; she gave herself fully to the glory of battle, and it could be terrifying and beautiful to watch. She'd probably revel in the hunt like they did. A sable-colored she-wolf, racing through the trees in the moonlight, that silken voice raised into a howl —

The Gildergreen flashed in his mind, the tree back when it still bloomed. When Bee was really little, that tree had been her favorite thing in all the world. She used to press her ear to the trunk and claim it told her stories, about moths and hawks and wolves and dragons, and he and Vilkas used to tease her for it. Many years later, when she'd told them about her girlhood in Dibella's temple, she'd had that same look of enchantment on her face, and Farkas had gotten goosebumps. Now that he was putting the memories together, he felt a sense of dread.

Farkas and his brother didn't think much of gods or daedra. The Companions were hands-off when it came to religion as well as politics, and having multiple parental figures imparting (or not imparting) their beliefs simply meant to Farkas that people could believe whatever they wanted. He and Vilkas were vaguely aware of greater powers — they shared the beast blood, after all — but for the most part, it seemed gods were invented to make life and stories more interesting.

When Kodlak told them at their ritual that Hircine would be waiting for them upon their deaths, they'd shrugged it off. They didn't know if Sovngarde or the Hunting Grounds were real; they could see for themselves when they died, and that was a long way off yet. Meanwhile, here was a gift of power right now, while they were alive, for doing what they had been raised to do.

But, the Dragonborn was real. Farkas had seen the flash of her blades. He'd heard the crackle of her Voice. He'd held her in his arms. What happened when beast blood and dragon blood mixed? Would it go against some cosmic order he'd simply ignored until now? Did they want to mess with that sort of thing? Had he and Vilkas messed up already?

Reeling, he pulled his mind back to something he could understand. He'd seen her sleeping, once when she'd camped on the way to High Hrothgar, and once right next to him at the Huntsman. The second time, he'd been so enchanted, he almost felt bad waking her for more than sleep.

"She can't join us," Farkas said absently. "She deserves to rest."

Vilkas said nothing, but he understood. He'd been following a similar line of thought. He brushed it away now with a shake of his head. "War's still on, Farkas. We don't have to think about that now."

He inspected the bite marks on Farkas's shoulder. "I didn't get you too hard, did I?'

"Nah," Farkas said, brushing his arm away.

"A little more potion, and it'll be gone in the morning."

Farkas tilted his head so he could look at the punctures on his own shoulder. They still throbbed, but a few had begun to scab after the first potion. "Maybe I'll keep it. Might remind me not to get too hungry."

"Good idea," Vilkas said, clapping his hand down on the area in a hard slap.

"Ow! Bastard!"

"Just making sure the reminder sticks."

Farkas snorted. "You should talk." Vilkas had confided in him about his hunger in the courtyard, during the siege. They had each pulled the other away now; Vilkas had done it literally. What would happen if the pull wasn't strong enough?

"I think we need to tell her," he added quietly.

Vilkas earnestly shook his head. "No. No. She has too much to handle already."

"What if there's another close call like tonight? Or even that time after the watchtower, when we could still smell the dragon on the ground? She needs to be able to protect herself."

"She's more than able to protect herself, Farkas!"

They fell silent at what that might mean.

Skjor reentered the cave and threw the twins' packs at their feet. Vilkas immediately began fishing out his clothes and armor. "I'm never doing this for you again, you oafs. Already carrying one set of armor on my back; don't need two more. I'm no young buck now."

But, Farkas wasn't listening. He was determined. "The next time she comes home, I want to tell her."

"No!"

This time, Skjor and Aela joined in. Aela sat up in her bedroll. "You forget, Farkas, that you are bound," she said. "You're part of the Circle. The Companions have no oaths, but the Circle belongs to Hircine. What happens when the Dragonborn finds out about a pack of werewolves serving a Daedric Prince, right in the heart of Whiterun?"

"People laughed at Krev," Skjor put in, "but they wouldn't laugh at her. Our heads would be on the city walls."

Farkas shook his head. "I could tell her it was an accident. I'll say I was bitten. I wouldn't need to involve you."

"Even so, what makes you think she wouldn't cut off your head right then?" Skjor replied. "How close are you? Some girl you knew when you were whelps. Bed-mates and wartime letter friends."

"That's not what it is!" Vilkas cried, though his eyes betrayed his doubts.

"Exactly," Farkas said, pointing and looking at his brother. "She trusted us, Vilkas. She told us everything about her. Can't we trust her?"

Vilkas looked at Skjor and Aela, cold and defiant, and his brother, pained and pleading. Finally, he shook his head. "It's too soon. We can't say. We need to wait."

"Vilkas — "

"You said she deserved to rest, brother. Think about what this would do." Farkas grew silent. "We can't tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever. We need to wait."

Skjor grumbled. "Get dressed already, you two. Someone needs to get to Jorrvaskr before dawn to keep up appearances. I'm tired from hauling all your stuff up and down all those barrow steps, so I'm going to rest a bit."

"What about Aela?"

"Staying here," she said. "We completed the contract. I can head to Dawnstar from here and collect payment in the morning."

Skjor began to undo his cuirass again. "Go on, now. Maybe the walk will put this out of your head for good."

Slowly, Farkas reached for his things.


	9. Chapter 9

Before the end of Sun's Dawn, the Legion had taken Fort Dunstad. They took advantage that the Stormcloaks were still licking their wounds from Whiterun, while legionnaires from Haafingar and Hjaalmarch, who had waited their turn in the winter, were fresh and eager to fight. Miel and Rikke then moved from the camp to the fort to plan. Tullius said taking the Pale put them in striking distance of Windhelm, but they needed Dawnstar's surrender before the Stormcloak bears rose from slumber and took it back. Jarl Skald was a passionate supporter of Ulfric and declared he would not make it easy. It seemed more and more that Miel would have a turn at waging a siege.

On their second night in Dunstad, Miel eagerly took up the bundle of letters that had waited too long for her attention. Since leaving Whiterun, she had sent a few letters but found little time to truly savor the answers. It had pained her to receive several pages from home — Vilkas had indeed begun to write more than their chess notation — yet be forced to keep her own replies brief. Now, she could go through everything again and try to compose something better, more worthy of the effort her correspondents made. She settled herself on a bench in the mess hall and tried to tune out the sounds of the other soldiers.

"After you wrote of your detour to Ustengrav, I rented the attic room at the Sleeping Giant like you asked," Vilkas wrote. His increased formality with a quill amused her to no end. "There was no such thing. When I told the proprietress that the Dragonborn was too busy on the front lines to come herself, she was disappointed, to say the very least. She said she won't speak to anyone but you and stressed the urgency of your meeting her in person. I told her that if it was so urgent, she must write to you herself, and possibly stop the war, because you are busy. She began ranting about Thalmor agents intercepting messages and me being a Thalmor spy, so I left. She seems little more than someone whose paranoia has tainted her soldier's retirement. We'll take care that doesn't happen to you.

"Heart's Day was yesterday, and I confess, I wished you were here. I think it's one of the most frivolous holidays in Tamriel, simply another excuse for inns to sell more food and wine, and yet I was jealous of the lovers going about this year. Old Tilma had someone! So, there was no dinner at Jorrvaskr, and we were forced to go out and endure the sight of others' happiness, which only worsened our own hunger.

"Farkas and I found ourselves at a table of others with husbands, wives, and lovers away fighting like you. It was morose and tense; there were people on both sides of the war, so there was always the thought that someone's husband might not come home because of someone else's. But, no one spoke aloud of such possibilities, and we focused on drinks and stories. There may be a few more townsfolk now who know about the time I put you in a box and tried to float you to the sea through the Whiterun canals. The holiday does not seem so bad now. Still, I missed you."

On it went for another page or two, describing what else he had been up to, before ending with his response to her last move in their current chess match.

Farkas sent four drawings of a wolf, crouched in a meadow and watching a bee at work among the flowers. In the second, the bee had landed on the wolf's nose; in the third, the wolf was pawing its nose in pain at being stung; and in the fourth, it was watching the bee again. Under the last picture, Farkas had simply written, "Patient while the honey's being made."

While Bee found this amusing, she was puzzled by his choice of a wolf and not some other animal, like the more obvious bear. It only reminded her of the strange incident near the Nightgate Inn. The wolf that night had been like nothing she had ever seen. It was larger than a man, its eyes had gleamed like pearls against velvet, and its jaws would have crushed her ribcage in a snap.

She had tried to accept Skjor's story, and tried to dismiss the memory. She had been confused by the skirmish; she'd tried to stop a bear from mauling the Stormcloak courier she'd been tailing, only for the courier to mistake her movement for a direct attack. It had been dark, she'd seen the beast for only a moment, if anything; it could have been her eyes playing tricks on her — bizarre reflections from the moonlight on the snow. But then, she'd heard a man cry out in pain, and it had sounded so like Farkas. Her fear then had been too great to ignore. She'd run up to the ridge after both the bear and the courier were down, and she'd seen the strangest tracks leading down through the trees toward a large den, only for a different Companion to emerge and tell her all was well. 

Later, the twins themselves noted in their letters that Skjor mentioned running into her. They each expressed regret they hadn't joined Skjor on his hunt; it would have been nice to see her. Farkas said he'd been nursing a training injury at Jorrvaskr — if he had really been out there that night, he would have loved for her to nurse him instead, and save him from the mangy, smelly wolf with the nasty teeth. Vilkas only said he'd been stuck doing paperwork for contracts with Kodlak. Still, Bee couldn't shake the odd feeling that Farkas had been there, in those woods.

Bee looked at the candle clock. No doubt Rikke would request a proper mechanical one in the supply caravan, but Bee could tell enough that it was late. She needed to actually answer these letters.

The children told how they'd spent Heart's Day at the Battle-Borns' so that Lydia could be with "her guard friend". But, apparently, the great scandal of Heart's Day was that Braith had given Lars a piece of candy bark, then punched him when he hadn't known what to say. "Aunt Alfhild says that this explains everything, but she won't explain it to me!" Lucia complained. Sofie, meanwhile, asked if Miel would get to come home like before, once she and the army had taken over the fort.

Bee winced. If the Legion pushed through with a siege of Dawnstar, it would probably be brief, but there was still no telling when her next leave would be.

She was in the middle of her replies when a footman approached the table.

"Pardon me, Quaestor, but the Legates want to see you. It's urgent," he said.

Miel tried not to sigh as she made her way to the meeting room. Rikke and Constantius Tituleius were there, along with a Stormcloak carrying a Dawnstar shield, an elder legionnaire, and a Dunmer priest in saffron. Miel couldn't help noticing the embroidered trim on his hood, a chain pattern of knots denoting his service to Mara. If she had gained her hood, hers would have had white lilies.

"All right, she's here," Constantius said. "Quaestor, this is Jod, housecarl to Skald. That's Horik Halfhand, one of our veterans. And, this is Erandur, obviously a priest." To them, he nodded. "Now, tell us why this motley trio is here and why you wanted the Dragonborn in the parley."

Jod cast his eyes down. "You have to understand, I am only here for the people of Dawnstar and the protection of Jarl Skald. I do not support you Imperials. If this works, I will be joining the Jarl in exile. I will deny that I was ever here."

The Legates nodded, and Jod continued. "Shortly after the Old and New Life Festivals, the townspeople began to complain of nightmares. At first, we thought it was just because of all the drinking they had done. Might be, the mead was spiked with skooma or something. But, it's gone on for weeks now. Even the soldiers who returned from Whiterun have complained of nightmares."

Constantius snorted. "We've heard of this. None of our agents who've been through the town have complained. It's nothing a good potion can't fix."

"You think we haven't tried that?" Jod snapped. "Nothing has worked. Every night, our memories are twisted into the most horrific visions! Every night without fail!" Horik shuddered, and Erandur looked at the ground. "Your agents never stay long enough in the town for the curse to take a hold of them — we can tell, because of how rested they look," Jod continued. "We wake more tired than when we went to bed. Our forces, such as they are, have been sapped of their strength. You will take Dawnstar in a day if the soldiers don't lay their arms down outright. But once you garrison your own men there, you'll see them struggle to stay on their feet within a week. Then, Ulfric will send his refreshed troops to retake the hold, and it will begin all over again."

"Why are you here, then?" Constantius asked. "We can just take turns holding Dawnstar until a cure is found. Has anyone looked into gas leaking from nearby Dwemer ruins?"

Rikke shook her head. "Gas, curse, whatever it is, we don't want to be in a position that potentially puts troops out of commission. We could walk away, but Dawnstar is a port town, and the Empire wants it in hand to cut some of the Stormcloaks' supplies." To Jod, she repeated Constantius's question. "Why are you here? You wouldn't be here unless you had a way to get around this while keeping old Skald's hide intact."

Jod swallowed. He looked as though his heart was about to break, but he had already made his decision in coming to Dunstad. "Horik?"

The old legionnaire stepped forward. "There are enough loyalists in town who have been lying in wait, waiting for the Empire to be at our door. Skald has lost most of the citizens' support by sending more than the Pale can afford to spare for the so-called liberation of Skyrim. Everything is now in place for a bloodless coup. At great risk to our plan, I told Jod, so that he might ensure it from his end. We don't want to kill a stubborn old man just for being stubborn, but we will remove him."

"I've come to see that my oath to protect Skald includes protecting him from his own pride," Jod added. "But, as I've said, I will deny I was ever here."

"Help us make our move," Horik said, "and the rest of your troops can simply walk in down the Red Road. Then, have the Dragonborn lift the nightmare curse, and the rest of Dawnstar will be singing The Age of Aggression by first planting."

Miel considered his words with distaste. "You would have me wait till the coup is done to lift the curse?" she asked.

"It would be the best way to ensure that you and the Empire get the credit for it," Horik said. "Word will spread once the Dragonborn is seen leaving the White Hall on this quest from the new Jarl."

She was starting to see why her friends despised politics. "And if the curse doesn't break?" she asked, "or if it isn't real?"

"It's real." The priest had finally spoken. "And, it's daedric." Rikke hissed, and even Constantius shook his head.

Erandur continued. Somehow, he seemed embarrassed to be there. "Some people of Dawnstar wrote to the temple in Riften for help, but the priests there haven't been able to make the trip with all the fighting going on. Word traveled through Her Benevolence and reached me in Blacklight, and I arrived by boat but a few days ago to investigate," he said. Miel caught a furtive look in his eyes. There was something he wasn't telling them.

"I've traced the curse to what you call the Tower of the Dawn," he continued. "There's an artifact of Vaermina underneath; its influence is what's been plaguing the town." To Miel, he said, "As you have a touch of the Divines about you, I was hoping you would help me destroy it. I'm afraid it might be too much for the common adventurer."

Miel took a long breath. The only daedra she'd ever dealt with were atronachs, and they were mercenary, with no ties to any of the Princes. She'd read tales of what mere artifacts could do. Now, to not only handle but destroy one?

Rikke, as if sensing her thoughts, said, "You were made for this kind of thing."

Constantius nodded. "If you destroy it, then you'll do this world a great service. If you fail, then at least it might convince Cyrodiil to send us more support. Battle mages who might know how to deal with it. Or healers, scientists, if these nightmares are not from a curse at all. At least, we can try our own hand before the Thalmor catch wind."

Jod's face curled in disgust. But, to Miel, he said, "Do this, and the people of Dawnstar will be grateful, Dragonborn. Even if I won't be here to see it."

They spent another hour or so going over the plans for the coup. Miel then went to bed. She hadn't even finished her first letter.

* * *

  
A few days later, she was marching out of the White Hall, now occupied by Jarl Brina Merilis, and up to the Tower of the Dawn with Erandur. Some of the townspeople had come to watch them go. They shouted cheers or insults, depending on their feelings about Dawnstar's sudden change in leadership. Miel did her best to ignore them.

Finally, they were on the hill above the town, and they were alone. Erandur began telling her about the tower's history as the Nightcaller Temple of a Vaerminian sect.

"I set up a small shrine of Mara inside to pray for guidance," he said. "I believe it's no coincidence that our arrivals in Dawnstar were so close together."

Miel snorted. "One goddess of love tries to call me from another."

"I'm sorry?"

She shook her head and smiled wryly. "It's nothing. Just — if life had gone differently for me, Erandur, we would have been sibling rivals of the cloth." She pulled off her right gauntlet and showed him the ankh and lily tattoo on her wrist.

"Ah," Erandur replied. "Dibella." They walked for a bit in silence. "We don't tattoo at my temple in Blacklight. Has that become a common practice here in Skyrim?"

"Camlorn, High Rock," Miel replied. "The body can be a canvas, sometimes."

Another polite "Ah."

Miel realized she'd had no reason to go to Markarth since her arrival in Skyrim, and so she had not yet set foot in the province's temple of Dibella. If she were honest with herself, she was avoiding it. Based on the gossip about her, she had the sense that Skyrim's practices were much less open than Camlorn's, and she wanted to prevent any more negative associations if she could help it.

She could sense Erandur forming his own thoughts, and she braced herself for the worst.

"I don't think our orders need to be rivals, if you ask me," was all he said.

"Oh?" A surprise.

"The passionate love of Dibella can stoke the abiding love of Mara," Erandur said, "and it goes the other way as well; compassion has the ability to inspire passion later on."

Miel smiled. They entered Nightcaller Temple, and she looked around Erandur's makeshift worship hall with interest. "Might be easier to just let Mara handle all the love. Dibella will still have enough to govern through art," she said.

Erandur shrugged. "Yes, some temples and sects seem to be going that way. But some in Her Benevolence are, ah, uncomfortable with the creative, fleshier embodiments of love and are thus content to leave them in Dibella's domain."

"Fleshier embodiments!" Miel laughed. It had been a while since she'd had a conversation like this. She'd certainly had this same exchange with Marans before. She almost missed it.

Erandur led her beyond the shrine and pointed out the Skull of Corruption. It drew on people's memories and left them with horrific nightmares, he explained. Through the bars, Miel saw a crimson aura pulsating around a strange, dark staff. Immediately, she understood that the perpetual cold and the gray, icy seas were not the only sources of the gloom pervading Dawnstar. Somewhere deep inside her, she began to feel the sort of terror that would wake her when she was small, screaming for her mother in tears and sweat.

They went through the temple. Erandur explained the Miasma and shared more of the cult's history. The suspicion Miel felt during the parley at Fort Dunstad returned and grew. When they reached a magical barrier, she could not hold it back any longer.

"You seem to know an awful lot about this place," she said.

Erandur sighed. "I suppose there's no point in concealing the truth any longer. You're not the only one who traded one uniform for another. My knowledge of this temple comes from personal experience. I was a priest of Vaermina."

Miel felt a surge of anger, but only for a moment. As he had just pointed out, they were more alike than they seemed. She also understood, he was not simply here to investigate the nightmares, but to atone for them. "You should have told me the truth," she said evenly.

He apologized, and together, they went on to the temple library for more answers.

* * *

  
She took the Dreamstride, and then they retraced her dream path in the present to reach the Skull. They fought the reawakened orcs and priests as they went, until finally, they were forced to cut down Erandur's old friends.

The deeper they went in the temple, the more the Bee's terror grew. Perhaps it was because the Miasma was taking a while to evaporate, or perhaps the Dreamstride had other effects, but she felt as though she were fighting through a fog. In the fog were the creatures of nightmares throughout her life, from rabid dogs that chased her five-year-old self down and clawed deep gouges in her back, to the shades of all the men and women she had slain since arriving in Skyrim grasping for her throat.

Finally, they were at the Skull of Corruption now, and the waking nightmare threatened to consume her. Erandur was up on the dais, calling upon Mara to aid him. Vaermina called to Bee.

"He's deceiving you, again!" the needling, high-pitched whisper came. "When the ritual's complete, the Skull will be free, and then Erandur will turn on you! Just like Yanna and Deniel turned on you."

Before her eyes, Erandur's robes oozed and flowed, reshaping themselves around the form of Yanna of Camlorn. Yanna, smiling haughtily, glided down the steps and plunged her hand into Miel's chest. Miel gasped for air as Yanna pulled out someone's hand, then an arm, then the rest of him. Deniel stood there and embraced Yanna, in just the way she'd seen eight years ago, and the hurt was raw again. The ghosts of battle formed a dancing ring around them, and the dogs joined in on their hind legs. All of them looked at her with Yanna's contemptuous eyes, Deniel's remorseless smile. Miel felt her hand beginning to draw her sword, and she stepped forward.

Then, the vision was gone, and Erandur was standing alone on the dais. The Skull was no more. The terror dissipated in an instant.

The priest stared at Miel in shock, his eyes flicking to the sword clenched in her hand. Slowly, she loosened her grip.

"Only bad memories," she said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on what I understand from UESP, Vaermina's use of memory and nightmares is primarily in the Quagmire, which a person enters in their sleep/dreams. I've just taken a few liberties with the effects of the Miasma and the Dreamstride, plus the fact that she speaks directly to the player character in the game. The quest is called Waking Nightmare, after all.
> 
> Taking the Pale for the Empire is usually the first quest I get after defending Whiterun for the Legion. To me, it made sense that this would also be the next target in the story because the Stormcloaks need the ports for supplies while waiting for the first harvest of the year, and because it's the new year, the farms have not yet done their first planting. The idea for a coup came from the fact that a lot of the NPCs in Dawnstar actually express reservations about the war, and it's just Skald who insists on sending his people to join. I honestly have no idea if these strategies are good; they're just the ones I've worked out.
> 
> If you've read this far, thank you, really.
> 
> I did not actually expect to write a lot about the armies' movements in the civil war. The first version of this story (not uploaded anywhere) basically skips it: Childhood friend Bee is back, but she's busy with the war, so not much happens on the romance front. She and Farkas maybe hook up casually every now and then when she's home. Vilkas is standoffish because he doesn't like the war, and so he doesn't like soldiers. Also, she adopts some kids, making her even more busy. Also also, she's Dibellan because I want to explore what that might look like taken seriously instead of just "woo, Elder Scrolls sex cult". Oh yeah, she's Dragonborn. Things don't start to get serious till after the war is over, and she's officially joined the Companions. Farkas catches feelings, and Vilkas starts to think she's not so bad, but the three of them now need to keep their distance to stay professional. Tension abounds. Love blooms. Fun sexy times are had by all interested parties of legal age. Alduin dies.
> 
> (Vilkas being a snob in the earlier chapters is a hold-over from this version. I'm trying to make him more sympathetic and less part of the fun-twin-serious-twin trope as I go along, but it's hard to resist the trope because it can be fun to play with.)
> 
> For the heck of it, I decided to fill in some gaps, beginning with, "Well, what would it be like, the first night Bee and Farkas sleep together?" Then, because I'd given her this former Dibellan acolyte backstory, I wondered, "How would that actually affect her relationship with these guys? Her approach to relationships in general? How would it affect people's perceptions of her, against expectations of what the Dragonborn should be? How would she explain her past to people she might actually like?" I realized, the combination of (1) her attraction to the two closest people to her in Skyrim, where (2) she is practically a stranger, and all the (3) vulnerability and (4) urgency from the nonsense of war+heroism meant that the serious talks might actually happen sooner.
> 
> That then meant that Bee would have to be thinking about those things during the war, not after. That meant thinking about how the war might actually play out, based on the player character arriving in Skyrim in the month of Last Seed. That meant reading a little bit about how sieges could go before people had guns and tanks. (Things are still sped up compared with real history, because Skyrim has a superhero to push things along.) That meant studying the Skyrim map on UESP to see where the forts were, where the military camps were, etc. That would then tell me where Bee would be, and how the events of the war, other possible events from the game, and events from the Tamrielic calendar might affect the flow of the story. Does the ride to and from Windhelm with Balgruuf's axe really take 12 or fewer hours? Hell if I know. Shh, shh, Osmia; it's a story you made up because hot twins.
> 
> Hence, this version has become more of a civil war, semi-long-distance love story than the Companions and Jorrvaskr-based story I had originally written. The first time Miel and Vilkas sleep together is from asking, "What happens during the siege of Whiterun, when the Companions lock themselves inside, yet she's there for several weeks at least, and also war is terrible?"
> 
> Then, there's the kids. Because she's chosen to shelter Sofie and Lucia, I also had to think about how being a single foster parent on active duty would work out. With a support system composed of the people of Whiterun, is how. Maybe it's not plausible, but hey, I made this bed; I'm gonna throw on some pillows so it's easier to lie in.
> 
> Anyway, like I said, thanks for joining this ride. Coming back to fan fiction has been a great use of this stay-at-home time.
> 
> Being chased and clawed by dogs is an actual nightmare I had when I was five.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip this note if you don't need warnings. I find them spoilery, but I understand some readers want warnings.
> 
> \--  
> In the first chunk of this chapter, characters have thoughts and a conversation about dealing with past pain/trauma. A character briefly mentions a compulsion to put themselves in harm's way to die. I tried to end the chunk on as hopeful a note as possible. The chapter continues with family time and ends with some good old fluff.

The effect of the Skull's removal was felt immediately in the town; it was as though a great many pins had been removed from their heads all at once. But, the people were cautious in their hope. It was only when they woke the following morning, after having truly rested for the first time in two months, that they felt able to rejoice.

Miel woke to find the Windpeak Inn packed with locals eager to express their gratitude. Dried bouquets, trinkets, and even a puppy were pressed into her arms before she had barely any time to ask for tea. Thoring the innkeeper gently shooed the visitors to the side so that the Dragonborn could get some breakfast in first, but it was hard for her to concentrate on the meal when it had an audience. She liked the puppy, though. Lucia might like to have a little friend to match Sofie and her fox.

Erandur emerged from his own room, and she waved him over. "You ought to be thanking him," she said to the onlookers. "He's the one who actually destroyed the thing. I only helped."

"It was all by the grace of Mara," he said, settling across the table. Still, people had gifts for him, too, and Miel passed him many of hers as offerings for his shrine.

As people finally left them to their eggs and smoked fish, Erandur nodded at her. "Your only helping was invaluable, you know. You took down the barrier and kept me alive."

"You mean didn't kill you," she murmured.

After Erandur had destroyed the Skull, Miel had taken her leave and returned to the town in silence. It was mid-afternoon by then, and Rikke had told her to stay till the following morning to confirm things, so Miel spent the rest of the day walking up and down the coast. She listened to the sea until her memories began to feel dull and faded again. In the open, salty air, she could remind herself that she'd had eight years to deal with Yanna and Deniel's betrayal. No matter how fresh Vaermina could make those memories, Miel was not about to undo all the work she had done in her own mind.

But, the brief moment when she thought to kill the priest still shocked her. Dragons, the Voice, war — would life in Skyrim mean dealing with Daedric Princes, too? Would she be able to stay her hand if they tried to compel her again?

Erandur shook his head. "I was there, Miel. I — I saw things, too. When I say it was all by the grace of Mara, it's because I truly believe it's the only thing that protected me during the ritual."

"Protected you from me," she said drily.

"And me from myself," Erandur answered. He stared at the table. "I was once Vaermina's own. She had plenty of memories to goad me into giving up." He swallowed. "She told me I ought to let you punish me for my misdeeds. She told me your sword was at the ready, and all I needed was to fall upon it."

Miel set her cup down in horror. Erandur sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before continuing.

"But, in that moment, I felt the love of Mara coursing through me, reminding me that I could find forgiveness in her love. Moments later, the Skull was gone."

Miel swallowed. "If that hadn't happened, I don't know what I would have done, Erandur. We might not be having this conversation right now."

Erandur nodded, solemn. "But, we are, and thanks to the Divine Mother."

They continued to eat in silence. Miel was not sure what to say. She soon felt Erandur watching her curiously; she hoped he wasn't expecting her to provide some religious reflection of her own. She had not felt Mara, or anyone, in that chamber with the Skull, only fright and pain from a reopened wound.

"Do you have love, Miel?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked. A part of her was wary that he would begin preaching at her; some priests enjoyed few things more than attempting to bring a wayward woman of faith back under a temple roof. But, she also couldn't help thinking of the twins and the children. She still felt new and awkward just thinking of seeing them again. They had now spoken more through letters than face-to-face, and only ever scratching the surface of things with their quills. She knew fellow soldiers who found themselves marrying locals after doing one small favor. But, she still wondered if what waited for her in Whiterun could be called love.

"For me, the love of Mara is enough," Erandur continued, stroking his beard. "For you — well, I suppose that's up to the Divines — the Mother, and also perhaps the Lady still. But, I hope you do have love. It's hard to live without it."

"Hm." She shifted uncomfortably.

The priest's voice softened. "All that I've done as a priest of Vaermina, dealing with my old brothers yesterday — I imagine, in your line of work, that you draw that sword a lot as well. It's hard to carry such weight; I honestly don't often know how I still wake up in the mornings, or if I'll ever deserve to. But, love, compassion — they make it all easier to bear." He swallowed. "Love is the embrace of your mother, your father, your husband, your wife, reminding you the nightmares are not real. But you are; you're real, and for some reason, the Divines see fit to grant you another day."

His words washed over her like the sea.

Miel made a small smile. "If you stay here in Skyrim, Blacklight is going to lose an excellent sermonist."

Erandur laughed. He shook his head modestly. "I feel that I belong here in Dawnstar, rebuilding on the bones of my past. But, should you ever need my services, you'll know where to find me."

They shook hands and finished their meal quietlly. Miel then attempted to pay for her breakfast, but Thoring would not accept. She gathered the puppy into her arms and set off for the White Hall, to inform the Jarl and check in with Legate Constantius.

Outside, a woman wearing an Amulet of Talos stared at her with confused resentment. A few other people she passed also cast dirty looks and muttered amongst themselves. They were Stormcloak supporters, in a town that was now flying the Empire's red and black banners everywhere. Yet, they had also been saved from a terrible curse, and from the violence of a true siege. Perhaps they were not yet sure what to think. She suspected Erandur's work in Skyrim was only beginning, and she wished him well.

* * *

  
Tullius wanted to see if Ulfric would try to regain the Pale. Jarl Skald, Jod, and their remaining loyal soldiers had fled to Windhelm. Perhaps now that the Skull's influence was gone, they might muster their strength and additional troops to return. Moving more troops to the Rift and Eastmarch, Castle Dour hoped that waging battles there would draw Ulfric's forces south, away from the ports and Solitude. Meanwhile, the Legion could uphold Dawnstar as a beacon of peace and mercy; returning to the Empire's fold did not always need bloodshed, only a change of hearts and minds — and Ulfric's retaking a peaceful town would be painted as a massacre.

Miel, thankfully, did not need to think about any of this. She was content for now to be an arrow in the general's quiver, to be sent where she was needed. And, mercifully, Rikke granted her the rest of the week as leave before she had to join the campaign in the Rift.

She arrived in Whiterun at night, after the children had had their dinner, and they were delighted at the addition of the puppy to the household. Lydia was less amused, but when the housecarl recognized it was a buhund, she saw at least a potential partner in guarding the house and girls. The fox, which Sofie had finally named Coppertail, was even less enthused with Tirdas, as the pup came to be known. Eventually, however, they would be inseparable. Playing with the girls and the animals on the rug for a while, Bee felt the events in Dawnstar recede from her mind.

As she was getting ready for bed, she heard a knock on the door of her room. Sofie asked to come in.

"What's on your mind? Can't sleep?" Bee asked.

The girl looked embarrassed, then was distracted by all the crates and chests lining the northern wall. In her first months, before being posted at Fort Neugrad, Bee had collected a small hoard of interesting weapons and pieces of armor. What she didn't sell for extra gold, she'd stored in an abandoned house, until she'd acquired Breezehome and brought everything there. The crates had been allowed to take up the space where someone would have walked to the other side of her bed; Bee had no intentions of ever entertaining anyone there while the children were under the same roof.

Miel pointed now to the foot of the bed, so that she and Sofie could sit together and talk. Perhaps because she'd spent too long fending for herself, Sofie sometimes acted younger than her 12 years, as if to make up for the lost time, but now, she looked entirely aware of being at the edge of her childhood. Bee remembered then, she'd been that age when she'd been taken to the temple. Suddenly, she felt both excited and anxious for all the youth and life Sofie still had ahead of her.

"I — I had my first bleeding a few weeks ago," Sofie whispered.

Bee chuckled. She herself wondered if this was something to ever congratulate a woman about, but she knew what it meant, and she was simply glad Sofie had thought to tell her.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," she said with regret. "I hope you had someone to help you."

Sofie nodded. "We were playing outside when it happened. Aunt Carlotta saw it and helped me."

"And, ah, did she explain what it meant?"

The girl blushed. "A little. She said you might need to teach me more places to stick a dagger."

Bee laughed out loud. "I can do that. But, I can also try to answer other questions you might have."

They talked a bit more, Sofie checking various things Carlotta had told her, and Bee being forced to summon all her old training in speechcraft to provide honest but appropriate answers. As they spoke, she felt warmed and humbled by the girl's trust. It was the same feeling she had whenever they called her Mama, despite her being gone so much of the time. Anything she could do to make them feel safe and comfortable, she would.

She thought again of being Sofie's age, and another thing came to her.

"Sofie, have you thought about what you'd like to do when you're older? A trade, perhaps, or studies?" Bee asked. "I was your age when I went to the temple, and I think Mila Valentia's been her mother's apprentice since she could count. Is there something you'd like to try?"

Sofie brightened. "I'd like to have a shop. Like Belethor's, or the Cauldron. Even a stall like Aunt Carlotta's would be nice."

Bee smiled. Now that she thought about it, Sofie had a bit of an entrepreneurial streak. She certainly asked for an allowance more often than Lucia did. Lydia had indignantly reported catching Sofie spending it on ingredients and selling honey nut treats at a profit to other children. Bee didn't like the idea of having the girl apprenticed to Belethor, but perhaps Arcadia or another shop owner could be convinced. It might be good to have an alchemist in the family, to boot. "I'll see if we can find you an apprenticeship before I leave again," she said.

Sofie expressed excitement at this, and they hugged good night. As the girl left for her own room again, Miel found herself thinking of Erandur's words earlier that morning. A child's embrace, too, could be a ward against the shadows in the mind.

* * *

  
Farkas heard the girls' laughter from the Jorrvaskr training yard and found himself grinning. Bee was home, and apparently, she had time for a bit of hide-and-seek. He quickly ended his sparring match with Torvar and excused him from training early. The younger Companion, having been knocked about, did not complain.

In three steps from the wall, Farkas was perched on the roof of the guard barracks to survey the scene. It seemed Lucia was it, and sure enough, Bee favored the same clump of bushes behind the Bannered Mare as when they were kids. Farkas dropped silently onto the ground and crept up behind her.

"Found you," he whispered.

She yelped, and he kissed her, pushing them into that little space between the shrubbery and the walls of the inn. It was a lot harder for him to squeeze in now that he was a man, but Hulda would scold him for wrecking the plants either way, so he didn't care.

"Welcome home," he said.

There was giggling. Sofie, Lucia, and Mila had found them, too.

Bee scrambled to her feet and brushed herself off. "Ah, I think that's enough hide-and-seek for me." She tried to arrange her expression and failed. "You all go on now. Go on. We'll have to make supper soon."

Farkas stood, too, and picked a leaf out of her hair. The girls giggled some more and scurried off. He kissed her again — much easier to do standing, though perhaps not as fun as otherwise.

"I missed you," he said.

"I missed you, too," she said, shyly.

Farkas remembered then that they hadn't seen each other since the night of their talk outside Breezehome. He sensed her doubt and determined himself to set her at ease. He still thought about telling her his secret, and she would definitely need to be at ease then. For now, though, it was just nice to have her next to him. He led her by the hand to a bench by the back wall of the Mare.

"Will you be in town long?" he asked.

She blew a bit of hair out of her face. Her heart was beating like the wings of a little bird. "I leave the afternoon of Sundas."

Perfect. "Perfect," he said. "Do you have plans? Would the girls mind if I took you away from them for a bit?"

Her cheeks flushed. Farkas sensed with a bit of self-satisfaction that her time in the Pale had been very cold indeed. The poor woman — he would have to attend to her as soon as possible.

"Nothing certain," she said, clearing her throat. "What did you have in mind?"

Farkas smiled. "Vilkas and I go hunting every year on our birthday. That's this Fredas."

"Oh, gods!" Bee cried. "Was I supposed to know that? I'm so sorry!"

He laughed. "It's nothing. Just remind me when yours is, and we'll call it even." He still remembered; it was in Hearthfire. "Anyhow, hunting. Come with us. The air's still a bit nippy, but it's springtime now. With a fire and some drink, fresh game, maybe a bit of music, we'll have a nice night. Camping. Away from the city."

Bee was fighting again to keep her face under control. Farkas tried not to laugh, but then doubt crept into her eyes again, and she looked right at him. Again, he remembered their talk.

"If you don't want to go camping," he added quickly, "you could just wait for us to come back on Loredas. Dinner here at the Mare? And, there's a new public house near carpenter Emil's. Tundra Cotton Club, I think it's called. With all the soldiers stationed here now, business is good for taverns and inns and such. Honningbrew might also — "

"No, no. I think — camping might be good," she said, slowly.

"Are you sure? This isn't a ploy to — well, all right, it most definitely is a ploy." The corner of his mouth went up in his admission. "But, really, any time with you is good. We don't even have to do anything. It's just — it might be nice to be somewhere that isn't an alehouse."

Bee laughed a little. She seemed reassured. "What about Vilkas? Is he around? Should we talk to him?"

Farkas inhaled. Right. "No, he's over around Karthwasten, on a job. Our plan was to meet at our usual spot in Falkreath on our birthday. You would be a nice surprise." Well, he hoped so. To Farkas, having Bee come along would make up for not being able to transform for the type of hunt they actually had in mind. Vilkas had his moods. Farkas would have to find a courier to catch up to his brother, so it wouldn't be too much of a surprise.

He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. How nice it was to have her close again! All he wanted to do was kiss her, but he patiently watched her consider his suggestions.

"Think about it, if you want," he said. "What about tonight, what have you got planned? Do you still need me to drop by as usual?"

Bee blinked and remembered. "Oh, Middas is when you come by the house to check on them, isn't it? I forgot." She clutched at the back of her neck and tried to suppress a smile. "I have heard that you make a good roast chicken."

Farkas grinned and poked her in the ribs. "Will you sing for your supper?"

He would never get tired of making her blush. "All right," she relented, shaking her head and avoiding his eyes.

Farkas leaned in to kiss her again. After the faintest show of resistance, she tilted her face, smiling, to meet him, when the back door of the Mare burst open. Hulda had come out to empty her rubbish.

"Young Farkas!" she scolded.

He winced. Hulda still called him and his brother Young So-and-So; her tone still made him react as though it still fit.

"I would have thought you'd grown out of bringing your girls back here! And wrecking my shrubbery again, too!" She grabbed a broom, threatening to whack him, and he instinctively raised his hands to protect himself.

Bee was laughing. "Tell me, Miss Hulda, just how many has he brought back here?" she asked.

Farkas began shaking his head and gesturing violently at the innkeeper.

"Oh, scads and scads, Little Bee. Goodness, I think you could do better than this one here," she said sternly. "He's still as bad as that day he stole one of my good sheets and made that swing in the Gray-Manes' yard."

"That was Vilkas!" Farkas protested.

Hulda tutted. "I expect you to pay for my new garden, Young Farkas. Bee, I know you're grown now, but if he gives you any grief, you just come straight to me. Mara knows, I'd have banned both lads ages ago if they weren't so good for business. Put them by the fire, and the next lady travelers to come in are sure to stay the night," she muttered.

Bee laughed even harder as Hulda disappeared, back into the inn. Farkas sighed, dragging his palms down his face. "Come on," he said, "let's go see if we can find that chicken. I suppose I'll need to order whatever this plant is, too."

She smirked and continued to tease him as they walked. But, at some point on the way to the market, Bee let him hold her hand.


	11. Chapter 11

Vilkas spat. He pulled off a gauntlet and wiped his mouth on his arm. The fighter and the mage had been easy enough to dispatch, but the archer had given him a bit of trouble. He knelt and searched the bandit's body now to see if he carried any potions; it would save him one of his own. He then stepped over the body and entered Four Skull Lookout.

"Three measly bandits over some rusty old axe," he muttered, rooting around in the chest. "Should have let you give this one to Athis, Skjor." He found the heirloom, a bit of gold, a saleable helmet, and — yes! — a few potions. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and drank, leaning against the northern doorway of the ruin, overlooking the river and the road.

If he was honest, he didn't mind taking even these simple retrieval jobs. Vilkas was always restless, but since the Empire posted troops at Whiterun after the siege, he had been especially on edge. Sometimes, they reminded him of Jergen, and sometimes, of Bee, and he wasn't sure which was easier to think about. But, out of sight, out of mind, and so he got out of Whiterun as much as he could. Aela was starting to complain; he was master at arms and had been passing training off to her or to Farkas. Skjor probably wouldn't give him another job for a while once he got back.

Out of sight, out of mind. Whenever a letter arrived from Miel, the words in her delicate script brought forth her voice, her face, her laugh. But, once he'd written his answer and slipped her letter into his dresser, doubt would settle back into place. Whenever her replies took long, or seemed too short, doubt needled him. Now that the war seemed truly underway, she would forget about him; she had to. Their sweet exchange after Balgruuf's feast — perhaps only a mix of drink and desire. And, as he'd said to her, she had choices. She could easily find a new one out there. After all, he was out of her sight, too.

Vilkas checked the stars. It was early Turdas morning now. He climbed down from the lookout, found a shallow place to cross the river, and began the trudge up to Markarth. From there, he could try to rest at the Silver-Blood Inn, though he hated their stone beds. If he found some company and tired himself out, it might be easier to sleep. He could then take a carriage to Falkreath in the morning, return the heirloom axe there, and get a day's head start on the hunt.

He desperately looked forward to the hunt. Spring's green scents were intoxicating, prey that had slept were reemerging, and changing his skin offered a release unlike any other. Since they'd joined the Circle, spending his birthday as a beast had felt right; his outsides took the form best suited to sate the hunger of his insides.

After Shrouded Grove, Farkas hadn't said another word about telling Bee, but Vilkas could tell it was still on his brother's mind. Vilkas hated to admit it, but he had been thinking about it, too. Farkas had been right about one thing. She had trusted them. The best way for their relationship to feel more solid to him would be for him to trust her, too. He just could not bring himself to do it.

If there was anything Vilkas envied about his brother, it was his ability to trust, to have faith that life would simply resolve itself. Farkas didn't worry about what Bee was thinking or whether she would feel the same when they saw each other again. Farkas could hope all he wanted, then move on quickly if his hopes were dashed. When it happened to Vilkas's hopes, on the other hand, he blamed himself for hoping in the first place, and set himself against hoping again in the future.

The trouble now was that Farkas had faith Bee would accept their secrets as they had accepted hers. Farkas couldn't see that their secrets were more burdensome, much graver. Farkas didn't want to think about what she would do if his faith was unfounded, so Vilkas thought about it for the both of them. At best, she would cut ties with them. At worst, they would taste her steel and her Voice; she would Shout them into Oblivion. This time, Vilkas was right to hold back hope. He was sure of it.

None of their relationships, separate or shared, lasted very long. Some women liked mercenaries and adventurers, until they preferred tradesmen, nobles, or farmers. Others sought their own fortunes elsewhere in Tamriel, and when it became clear neither brother would leave Jorrvaskr for anything or anyone, they eventually stopped writing.

Vilkas already had a family, where being one's own was the norm. Few Companions ever married, and those who did tended to disappear from the active roster after a while. When he joined the Circle, he knew it meant he might never be serious with anyone again, and that had been just fine. The pack was all the family he needed.

If only Bee had never come back to Whiterun. If only he'd listened to his first impulse and ignored her because she was a soldier. If only he'd ignored Farkas's advice to be nice. If only he'd never seen her with the children, never heard her intriguing story at the Bannered Mare, never started their chess matches, never let the trap close around him the night of Old Life, when talking to her at the edge of the market square and walking her home to hear her sing had been the best part of the evening. If only they hadn't found each other during the siege; if only he didn't know what it was like to hold her and hear the different ways she could call his name. If only she'd simply stop writing and kill his few hopes for good.

He was at the Silver-Blood Inn now. Vilkas sighed as he pulled himself up to the bar. There were but a few hours left till dawn. He decided to forgo the room and simply have a meal and some ale until the carriage driver woke; he could try to sleep on the bumpy ride to Falkreath.

"Any messages for the Companions, Kleppr?" he asked. "Rumors and bounties, perhaps?"

The innkeeper reached below the bar and pulled out a thin sheaf of papers. "Have at it," Kleppr said. "This one arrived specifically for you, though. Not more than an hour or so ago. The courier's over by the fire."

Vilkas unfolded the note and saw his brother's slapdash script.

> Bee came home.  
>  Invited her to our hunt.  
>  You're welcome.  
>  Happy birthday  
>  \- F

Vilkas groaned. "Damn you, Farkas."

Distracted, he leafed through the papers but saw nothing promising. "Rumors, then, Kleppr."

"My, aren't we demanding," Kleppr said drily. "Well, Cragslane clan have been seen trapping wolves again. And, I've heard the Pinewatch clan are back early from wintering in Cyrodiil."

More good news. He would still go to Falkreath to deliver the heirloom, but camping at the usual spot was now out of the question. He was sure the three of them could manage any nosy Pinewatch neighbors, but it wasn't exactly how Vilkas wanted to spend a birthday. He asked for a quill and paper.

He began writing a reply to his brother, then found himself sighing as he tore the line off the sheet and started over. "Damn you, Farkas," he muttered again.

> Pinewatch clan is back early.  
>  Meet you by Greenspring.  
>  You're welcome, too.  
>  \- V

* * *

  
Something was pawing at his nose, or brushing it. Vilkas grunted and swatted it away. There was a peal of familiar laughter, followed by snickering close by, and he opened his eyes.

Miel's face was hovering close to his. She smiled and gave his nose another tap with a blue harebell. "Happy birthday," she whispered.

Before he was fully awake, Vilkas had already reached for her face. Before he could pull his hand back, she covered it with her own.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

Vilkas blinked hard and made his face go blank. Nothing, he thought. Only wondering how I could be so stupid.

Farkas, standing over them, cleared his throat. "You, uh, got an early start hunting, brother."

Vilkas bolted upright, hitting his head on the lean-to. Bee suppressed a laugh and got out of the way so that he could stand.

He had arrived in the late afternoon of Turdas and set up camp between several springs that fed into the Hjaal River. At night, unable to endure his own thoughts any longer, he'd changed form and ripped through the saber cat in Greenspring Hollow, as well as a few unfortunate deer that only happened to pass by. After gorging himself and then drinking deeply from the river, he'd changed back, crawled onto his bedroll, and passed out.

"This place is lovely," Bee said, "carnage notwithstanding." She slowly turned around, taking in the scene.

"That was — that was the saber cat," Vilkas mumbled. She looked lovely herself, standing in the sunshine and the tall grass, and in simple hunting armor for once. He held up a hand, and Farkas put a bottle of wine in it.

"Hm. So, what took care of the saber cat?" Farkas asked, hinting a warning.

"Wolves," Vilkas said, taking a swig.

"I wonder if they were like the big one I saw in the Pale," Bee said, "the one Skjor took down."

Both brothers looked at her. Vilkas's senses told him she wasn't agitated, only expressing a mild curiosity. She walked over and tiptoed to whisper into his ear. "I also wonder where your clothes are."

Vilkas shut his eyes tight and exhaled through his nose.

"My birthday's not for another six months," Bee teased.

The next thing Farkas handed him was a hunter's kilt of pelts and hides. As Vilkas dressed, Farkas set about picking animal parts off the ground and putting them in a pile. When Vilkas didn't say anything to her, Bee stepped back, confused. She then began to gather kindling to relight the fire.

Vilkas looked up at the sky. It was mid-afternoon. "I'm sorry about my state," he said, standing behind her. "I — I tend to let go a bit on our birthday. I thought I'd get it out of me before you arrived. I see I overslept."

She smiled and handed him some cracked, empty mead bottles from among the ashes. He was almost glad he'd gotten those in Falkreath before coming here; it was a better explanation than the full truth. "You've let go with me before," she said softly, blushing. "I don't think I'd mind."

He was glad she couldn't see him shaking his head. This was a mistake. He looked over his shoulder to communicate his frustration to his brother.

Farkas dropped a deer haunch and slowly crept toward his bow. "Bee, don't move," he cautioned.

Vilkas smelled it. Actual wolves, at the edge of the campsite, no doubt attracted by the mess he'd made. They were hungry, ready to fight for their meal if they had to. Standing as still as possible, he glanced frantically around for his sword.

Then, they heard the Shout.

"Kaan Drem!"

Vilkas staggered and gasped for air. It was like he'd been kicked in the chest. His head felt as though it was being squeezed by clamps. He saw Farkas, too, clutching at himself, the bow dropped to the ground. His brother was watching something behind him with fear and fascination. Slowly, Vilkas turned himself around.

The wolf pack was simply standing on the riverbank. They were a mother and three juveniles, probably out on a hunting lesson. Together, they watched Bee with mild interest as she dragged over half a deer. They sniffed at her, then accepted the gift. She ran over to Farkas's pile, grabbed a few more limbs and bits, and dropped them at the pack's feet. "Waste not, want not," she said. One of the young ones offered its head for her to scratch, and she gasped in surprise and delight. Finally, after each wolf had taken something into its mouth, they all stared at her for a moment before running off, in the direction of Swindler's Den.

She smiled at the twins in disbelief at what just happened, and then her expression changed to worry. "Oh, no, are you all right? I didn't mean to scare you."

She tried to put a hand on Vilkas's shoulder, but he recoiled, then instantly regretted it at her look of confusion.

"Just a bit shocked, that's all," he said warily. "I've never heard you Shout this close."

Farkas found his voice. "What — what was that?" He sat on the ground, with one arm perched on a knee and the ball of the other hand rubbing his forehead.

"It's a Shout that calms animals, makes them trust me," she said. "It — how do I say it? It invokes Kyne's peace, in dragon language."

Hearing the old name made Vilkas's blood run cold. Instinctively, he stepped away from Miel.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I've never noticed an effect on people; it's only supposed to affect animals." She blinked. "I wonder why it wouldn't calm you, though." She smiled uneasily, then looked away when they didn't respond to her attempt at a joke. "Maybe I shouldn't have come."

"No." Farkas swallowed and gingerly got to his feet. "No, we're just surprised, is all. I want you to be here. We want you to be here." He cast Vilkas an angry look.

"Yes," Vilkas said. "I think I'm — not fully myself still, after last night. I think I'll be all right once I've eaten something."

Farkas nodded quickly. "Why don't you two catch us our dinner, while I finish tidying up around here? I'll get a stew started."

Miel looked questioningly at Vilkas. The pain in his head began to dissipate. In that moment, her eyes reminded him of the day he'd caught her stealing his marbles. He sighed and held out his arms. "Come here," he said.

He embraced her and inhaled the scents of the plains in her hair. "You smell like a pile of dead deer," he whispered. He felt her laugh against his body and squeezed tighter. "I missed you," he added.

He had missed her. Maybe this was nothing. Maybe his brother was right, and he just needed something to eat. He felt calmer, holding her, already. He kissed her, and then he let her go so that she could take up her bow and quiver.

They fell into conversation as they crossed the river and made for the hills. Slowly, Vilkas felt himself thawing again. It was good to have her close, to actually see her face, to see for himself, in her own eyes, that her regard for him was still there. How could he have doubted her?

The deeper they went into the woods, the more Vilkas felt a different power coming over him. He wasn't in beast form, but he still had his senses, and this was still a hunt. Suddenly, he wanted to show off. He wanted to take her along on the chase, for her to feel the thrill he felt when he stalked and took down his prey.

He detected a deer, alive and unsuspecting. The hunt was in earnest now. Silently, he bade Miel follow him through the undergrowth. Her excitement seemed to grow with his, and he had to keep from whooping or laughing aloud. If they were a pack, he would have howled, and she would have answered, and the deer's heart would have pounded against its ribs in sheer dread. There would have been a proper chase, less of this stealthy tracking. But now, they were standing on a ridge, overlooking the grove where the deer sniffed for early berries, and this was a different sort of thrill — of power over another creature's life. The deer would be helpless; they would take it easily.

Vilkas nodded at Bee, and she took out her bow. He stood behind her and put his arms over hers, so he could adjust her aim as she drew the string. He felt her shiver against him, and he was forced to push aside, for now, thoughts of how else they could celebrate this birthday. He waited until her breathing slowed, and he stepped back. "Now," he whispered.

The arrow went right through the shoulders, and the deer dropped to the ground. Vilkas could sense its pain and its fear as it tried to kick itself upright again. He eagerly drew a dagger and slid down the hillside to finish the kill.

"Vilkas, wait!"

"What's wrong?" he said. "We have to finish it."

"I know, but — "

The excitement had gone from her face; now, it held only pity, for the deer. He didn't understand. She joined him in the grove and put a hand on his knife arm.

"I'm going to use the Shout again," she said. "If it bothers you, maybe covering your ears will help."

Vilkas shook his head, but she pushed past him. He had barely enough time to raise his hands to his ears before she cried out. "Kaan!"

The deer's eye, wide and rolling with fright, was now still, watching Bee continue her approach. She knelt, stroked its side and its belly with two hands, and whispered her thanks. In a moment, it closed its eyes, as if acquiescing to its own death. Then, she sent her dagger home.

Vilkas felt angry, and sick to his stomach. Something was wrong. This wasn't how hunts were supposed to go. There was no triumph, no satisfaction, no strength overpowering weakness through slaughter. He felt as though something had lashed him. He turned around so that Miel wouldn't see his face, even as he struggled to make sense of his own reaction to the Shout and the scene that had followed.

"Vilkas?"

"I'm all right," he said. "Just — catching my breath."

"Sorry. I just wanted to give him his due."

"Him?"

"The buck."

He did his best to compose himself, and then he turned around and went to her side. The animal looked as though it had simply died in its sleep. He sighed and knelt to take it upon his shoulders.

"Is something wrong?" Bee asked.

He shook his head and began walking back toward camp. They were silent for a while.

Miel tried again. "You seem disappointed about something."

Again, he shook his head. "Just confused," he said carefully. "What — what was all that about? The Shout, and the — thanking the deer?"

"Oh!" She laughed nervously. "Froki did say the rituals were falling out of practice. But, I thought, with you being a true Nord and all, you would have known about them. Actually, I even assumed you'd done them."

"Done what?" He winced at the edge in his own voice. Be nice, Vilkas, he heard his brother say.

"I'm sorry," Bee said, softly. "I wasn't judging you; I didn't mean to sound that way." She paused, then took his silence as a sign to continue. "There was a boy who lost his family at Helgen. I stumbled upon him in the Rift, when Tullius had me running all across Skyrim last year. I found his grandfather Froki's bow and thought I'd return it on my way past, and the old man offered to put me through the trials. Kyne's sacred trials. Tests to show the goddess that I respected her creation and was a good hunter, worthy of her blessing."

Finally, Vilkas understood why the Shout and Miel's kill had unsettled him so deeply. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

"I went through them because I wanted to feel closer to Skyrim, and to Kyne, because of the Voice," she continued. "I know my religious practices barely exist, but there's a part of me that still believes in gods. I think I saw the trials as a way of connecting to one without having to set foot in a temple. And after I learned this Shout — I probably don't hunt as much as you, but I've done it this way ever since."

She laid a hand on his arm again. "Is something wrong?"

Vilkas's eyes stung with angry tears. He quickly shook his head. "No, it's just — it's a good story, Miel."

They had reached the river. The smoky smell of rabbit wafted over to them from the campsite. Vilkas's lean-to was gone, replaced by a large hide tent. Farkas stood and grinned at them. "You're back!" he cried. "Did you have a nice time in the woods, you two? I thought I'd catch a rabbit, since — Oh. Oh, you actually went hunting."

Bee laughed. "Yes, it's what one of the birthday boys wanted," she said, wading over.

Vilkas followed and dropped the deer on the other side. The look of peace on its face seemed to taunt him.

"This birthday boy has other ideas," Farkas was saying.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've been sweating by this fire, making your dinner while you two were chasing deer, apparently. I think I deserve a nice swim."

"Ah, a swim, is it?"

"I don't want to swim by myself, though. What if the mudcrabs get me?"

"Farkas, the water barely comes up to my waist."

Vilkas ignored their banter and went into the tent, to lie down on the pelts.

"What's wrong with him?" Farkas whispered.

"I thought you might know," Bee replied. "Does he not like birthdays?"

"He might be disappointed we couldn't go to Falkreath," Farkas said. "It'll pass. Rabbits are almost done, Vilkas," he called out. "We'll get some food in you soon."

Vilkas closed his eyes.

Kyne, goddess of the sky and storm, mother of beasts and men. Hircine, master of the great hunt, of manbeasts, and of the chase. Two gods over those who called themselves hunters, with two different ideas of what made a good kill. Vilkas, too, did not consider himself religious, but Miel's arrival had him asking questions he thought he'd pushed from his mind long ago. She had received one god's blessing, and Vilkas and his brother had accepted the other's. Of course they couldn't know — what had she called it? Kyne's peace. Of course the Shout had seemed to offend his very bones, and the beast in his blood growled and snarled and snapped.

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Vilkas found himself wondering if they'd made a mistake. "A true Nord," she'd called him. 

Again, a soft touch on his face, a hand on his forehead this time. He smelled the sharpness of herbs and opened his eyes. Bee was kneeling next to him with a bowl of stew in her other hand.

"Well, you aren't feverish," she said, though she still looked worried. 

Vilkas wanted to tell her to get away — it was no good, there was no hope, they could not be, they were cursed. But, as she stroked his cheek and searched his eyes, he felt helpless. He wondered if this was how the deer felt. He lifted her hand from his face and placed it on his chest, as if to tell her where to strike.

She smiled wryly. "I have something for that."

Miel set the stew down and bent closer, strands of hair falling from behind her ear to brush his cheek and tickle his ear. Vilkas kissed her and knew he was a dead man.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a grown-up slumber party ahead! Nothing explicit, because using your imagination is fun!
> 
> In case I'm too vague, I've updated the tags.

Miel pulled herself away and stood, laughing. "Come by the fire and eat," she said.

Vilkas got to his feet, and she glanced around the tent Farkas had set up. It was made of patched-together hides, like the tents Stormcloak generals used in their camps. Vilkas had been lying on a large bed of grass covered with saber pelts. The sharp, green smell of the grass permeated the tent. Miel also noticed that Farkas had put their packs and individual bedrolls to the side.

"What do you think of the sleeping arrangements?" he called from the fire, as if he'd read her mind.

Vilkas caught her eye and smirked as he exited the tent, the bowl of stew in his hand. Miel let out a nervous laugh, keeping her back to the brothers as she fought to compose her face, even as it grew warm at the suggestion.

"The bedrolls are there if you'd be more comfortable in one," Farkas added, less teasing.

Miel swallowed. Of course, she'd suspected, from his first invitation behind the Bannered Mare, that this was what they had in mind. Even if he'd assured her they didn't need to do more than talk, she knew how the magic of talk and firelight and desire could lead to other things. And, she knew she'd enjoy those things; she'd done so before, in Camlorn. Still, she wondered, in the corner of her mind, if this was only the end of the long game.

"We'll see how comfortable I am later," she said, with another nervous laugh.

She rejoined them by the fire. Farkas handed her a wooden plate with a leg of rabbit, a hunk of bread, and a thin slice of cheese. Vilkas handed her a cup of wine. Guillaume had sent fruit to Breezehome once again; she had brought some of it to share. Vilkas asked about the coup in Dawnstar, and soon, all three of them were talking easily over the good meal.

Farkas was an excellent cook, much better than she. He'd proven that in the kitchen of Breezehome the night before, but Bee found the little feast he'd thrown together over the campfire somehow more impressive. He was great with the children, too. In fact, she was a bit jealous of the rapport and shared jokes they'd developed while she was away in the Pale. But, the fact that he bothered to talk to the children at all, to look in on them and even see they were fed if he had the time, kept her heart open. He'd found a way to be part of her life even without her around.

And, now that she was there, he was tender, comforting, and playful, as if he liked nothing better than to disarm her and make her laugh. He made it so easy for her to imagine coming home to his embrace, to see him standing in her kitchen every day, and to fall, warm with food, mead, and love, into bed with him every night. (They had very nearly broken her rule about visitors upstairs; she'd had to distract him with her collection of war axes.) Of course, it only made the idea of possible betrayal all the more painful.

Vilkas, on the other hand, drew out her competitive nature. He could be as sweet as Farkas in his letters, but more often, there was an undercurrent of challenge. He was extremely well-read, and he made her realize how much she missed the mental stimulation she had gotten in the temple. Their exchanges felt like cleaning out cobwebs and rust; they reminded her that she had still gained more good than bad under Dibella's hand. Also, his thin skin made her impudent. She wanted to tease him as he had used to tease her, and get at whatever center he was hiding underneath his scowl and his smarts. Just now, during their hunt, she had glimpsed a hungrier facet of his personality that only intrigued her further. If this was indeed only a game to him, she now felt she would understand, somehow.

Having the both of them there now, flattered by the glow of torchbugs and fire, Bee felt she was willingly walking into a trap, and one she had helped make herself.

"How many women have you had this — arrangement with before?" she asked, at a lull in the conversation. She was stuffed, but she picked at the last few crumbs of cheese on her plate with her fingers and washed them down with wine.

Farkas puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. He and Vilkas exchanged looks. "Serious ones, you mean?"

Miel arched her brows with a wry smile. "As opposed to not serious ones?" Vilkas made a face at his brother, but she was amused by Farkas's frankness.

Vilkas cleared his throat. "As charming as we might be together," he said, "most women tend to prefer one of us over the other."

Each twin pointed at himself, and Bee laughed.

"Then, there are those who think of us as a passing thrill," he continued, "nothing more than a night's excitement. And, you have to consider, there are not even that many women we've liked in common. Our tastes don't always coincide."

"You're a rare bird," Farkas put in.

Miel wasn't sure if she should be flattered, but she felt it all the same.

"Four," Vilkas said softly, after a pause. "Two of them, former Companions. One decided to go to the College, then went to Valenwood. The other just walked out of Jorrvaskr one day and never came back. There was a bard, too, at the Mare before this Mikael came along. Last we heard, she was in Hammerfell."

"And Elena," Farkas said.

"Elena," Vilkas repeated. A cloud seemed to pass over his face. "A tailor's daughter. She left for Cyrodiil."

Bee suspected that was a birthday-ruining sort of story and didn't press. Still, she blurted out, "That's a lot of — being left."

Farkas swirled his cup and drank. "Vilkas said it before. We're Companions. In the end, the way we live didn't match the way they wanted. And, we belong in Whiterun," he said. There was silence as the three of them wondered what Miel might want when the war was over.

A bit too glibly, Farkas said, "So, that's four. And, not counting the ones we got attached to by ourselves."

Vilkas squinted. "Do you really need to know everything, Miel?"

"No," she said. "No, you don't need to tell me everything. I was just curious, is all." She smiled faintly. "I'm actually relieved that there have been others. I can trust that you know what we're doing, because this is new to me. Having a serious one." She nodded at Farkas, who grinned.

"Against not serious ones?" he returned.

She thought about that one for a bit. "It was serious worship," she said. "But, I didn't feel — the way you two make me feel. I enjoyed myself, but to those people, I was an acolyte providing a blessing. We did not spend as much time talking." She laughed, then her expression softened. "To you two — I think I'm just me. I think that you know me. Or that you want to. I want you to," she finished.

Suddenly, she felt embarrassed. Farkas took the plate from her and held her hand. Vilkas stroked her hair twice, gently, and then got up to reach for the wine. He refilled their cups.

Bee couldn't read Vilkas's face then. Was he angry? Sad? Determined? Farkas, too, took on a touch of melancholy.

"Oh no," she said. "Too serious?"

Farkas laughed, but she noticed that it didn't reach his pale eyes. For the first time to Bee, he seemed afraid of something.

"I want you to know me, too," he said.

Vilkas coughed, loudly and violently. Bee patted him on the back. "It's nothing," he said. "I think the wine went down the wrong way." Again, his face was unreadable, and he looked at Farkas, not her.

Farkas sighed. Then, he jumped to his feet and went into the tent. He reemerged shortly with the lute. "Would you give us a song or two?" he asked, a bit more brightly.

Miel conceded, smiling. "All right, birthday boy. Any requests?"

Farkas grinned. "The Dragonborn Comes."

"No. No! Gods, no!" She jabbed a finger at his nose. "And, don't even say what I think you're going to say!"

Farkas laughed, and even Vilkas let out an amused snort. "Sing us something in Bretic again," Farkas said then. "Something pretty."

Bee obliged. She drew from her father's hearthside repertoire again and offered a ballad about a Reachwoman roaming the Druadach Mountains for her lost love, only to find him a Briarheart. She followed this with a lighter sailor's shanty, then finished with her favorite temple hymn to love and beauty, just because.

Farkas had stretched out on his back by the fire and closed his eyes in contentment. When she was done, she laid the lute on his chest and accepted a fresh cup of wine from Vilkas.

"Happy birthday, lads," she said, raising the cup high. "A good year to you."

She and Vilkas tidied up after their meal, and then she excused herself to wash up downriver. Vilkas fussed with his work armor, and Farkas lay still by the fire.

Leaving her hunting armor just inside the tent, she walked in her tunic and cloak with a torch, a plain linen shift, and a cake of soap from Ri'saad's caravan. The night wind on her bare skin made her shiver, and the water looked colder still. But, simply thinking "Yol" as she breathed, like a meditation, was enough to warm her inside. She set the torch on a flat, half-buried stone and waded to where a spring flowed over a lip of rock. When she had soaped and scrubbed herself from head to foot, she sat against the wall and let the spring water run through her hair.

Bee could see the twins talking to one another at the campsite. Vilkas seemed disagreeable again, pestering Farkas about something until he relented. At some points, they looked in her direction, but she was upwind and couldn't hear a word. She laughed to herself and shook her head. It was the twins' turn to keep secrets now.

Somehow, she wasn't too worried. The trap was shut. She had known, just by joining them on their birthday, that something would change. And, at some point in the night, she had come to accept it. When the morning came, or when she left for the Rift, they might never speak to her again, but she was no longer afraid. Whatever happened, she would still have this night. It would be a good memory.

Pink and green auroras were shining above the Throat of the World. She wondered how disappointed the Greybeards were, that she still hadn't returned with the horn. Was that why they hadn't summoned her again? She'd been in Skyrim for just over six months now. It felt both like only yesterday and like ages ago. Perhaps she'd finally drop by the Sleeping Giant Inn on her way to the Imperial Camp on Sundas, and she'd ask the unpleasant-sounding lady where the horn was. She didn't need to think about that now, though.

Bee looked back at the campsite and realized the twins were gone. She glanced around, grabbed her torch off the bank, and saw that Farkas was wading over to join her. He had left every stitch of armor and clothing by the fire.

Laughing, she dropped the torch into the water, plunging her bathing area into darkness, and she stood on the bank.

"No!" he whined.

"Too slow," she said. "Besides, we all know you can see in the dark."

Suddenly, she could no longer feel the breeze. Instead, there was a warmth behind her. Her eyes widened in realization; she hadn't seen where Vilkas had gone.

She felt his hands on her back, and with a yelp and a splash, she was back in the river, in Farkas's waiting arms.

"Happy birthday to me," he teased.

Shrieking, she tried to wriggle away, but he held her tight against him, then was forced to release his grip when she elbowed him hard in her flailing. Her escape looked short-lived, however; Vilkas had gotten into the water, too. Together, the men tried to herd her toward the rock wall, but she slipped through their grasp like a fish. For a while, they chased and splashed and tickled and groped in the waist-high water, until they were out of breath from laughter and effort.

Bee found the soap again on the bank and tossed it to Farkas, who caught it against his chest.

"I shouldn't have to wash on my birthday!" he joked, even as he began lazily rubbing it across his chest and arms.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vilkas edging toward her in the water. "We'll only get dirty again," he said, his voice a low rumble. Miel shivered, and not from the cold.

"At least help me reach the tricky places," Farkas added. "I'm sure you've missed a few spots, too. We can make sure."

She laughed. It was tempting, but she didn't want to be fumbling on a cold, rocky riverbed in the dark. She'd already tripped on a stone and could feel a bruise forming on her knee. At the last moment, she scrambled onto the bank, found her shift, and pulled it on. There were groans and hissing noises in complaint as she enveloped herself in her cloak. She wrinkled her nose.

"I'm going to dry off by the fire and clean my armor," she declared. "Maybe by the time you're done here, I'll have made up my mind about the sleeping arrangements."

Who was she fooling? Even if they came back still smelling of wine, wild game, and smoke, those bedrolls would stay rolled. After all, it was their birthday.

* * *

  
At dawn, she woke to the sound of them murmuring excitedly to one another. Enough words — like "mouth" and "leg" and "tongue" — registered in her dream-fogged mind for her to realize they were comparing notes about the night before. Before she began to laugh quietly, they sensed she was awake and hushed one another.

There were soft kisses and little bites on her cheeks, on her eyelids, on her mouth, on the spot where her neck met her jaw. They both liked to bite, which she found funny, though she wasn't sure why. She sighed contentedly and opened her eyes.

"Good morning," Vilkas whispered, on her left. He was lying on his side, an arm tucked under his head. Farkas, on her right, was on his belly. He had been scratching into a journal with a piece of charcoal.

"Good morning," she said. "Did you sleep?"

Farkas laughed. "Not much, Bee. You made sure of that."

Groaning, she rolled over to bury her face in the saber pelt in a mix of delight and embarrassment. As she recalled it, her own sleep had been interrupted a few times as well. In another day, she'd be gone, back on the war front; they had not wasted the evening.

When she faced up again, Vilkas, with a rare grin, laid a hand at the base of her sternum. "I am converted," he teased. "My eyes have seen the glory. My mouth has tasted the fruit. My — "

"Yes, yes, all right," she said, laughing.

She sighed, and not for the last time that morning. Slowly, she raised a hand and made the old signs in the air before their faces.

"Go in rapture, dear ones," she intoned with a smile, "and by my blessing of ardor, know that the love of Milady Dibella is with thee."

Farkas laughed. He caught her hand before it came down and brought it to his lips, then to his face.

Vilkas drew close and gave her a long kiss on the cheek. "You are Milady to me," he said.

Miel scoffed. "Blasphemer! Kiss me and serve thy penance."

"Sorry; forgive me." It really was nice to see him smiling.

"Hey," Farkas growled, after a while. "I've been bad, too."

Bee laughed and shook her head. "No, no, you've been very good. The good are well-rewarded."

Vilkas rolled his eyes. "I don't see much difference between punishment and reward," he pointed out.

"Well. Just one more reason I never ascended to priestess."

They settled back, laughing, in a slightly uncomfortable tangle of arms and legs. Stomachs were rumbling, but no one wanted to get up to throw breakfast together.

With a coal-smudged finger, Farkas traced the black outline of the lily tattooed just above her left hip bone. Above it was the honeybee, and above that was the moth, the tips of its spreading wings just grazing the bottom of her breast. Miel had to swat his hand from going any farther.

"What were you writing?" she asked.

He blushed, another rare sight. "Just sketching," he mumbled. "Remembering things."

"May I see? Unless it's private, of course," she quickly added.

Farkas disentangled himself and didn't answer at first. He held up the journal, still out of her view, and flipped through the pages, as though making sure of something.

"They're sketches. They're not the best," he finally said. Still, he slowly extended the little book.

Miel accepted the leatherbound journal and opened it with care. The three of them lay on their stomachs to look. Farkas couldn't help explaining some. There were scenes of Whiterun life, landscapes of Skyrim, rough portraits of people and animals Farkas met, designs for weapons, Nordic sigils and knotwork patterns, and so on. Most of them were in charcoal, but a few used ink and even ochre. Miel recognized drafts of drawings he had sent her in the mail. He also had quite a few drawings of her, most recently asleep and nude. As they went through the pages, she complimented her favorites and assured him he wasn't bad at all.

"High praise from a Dibellan acolyte," Vilkas said helpfully.

"I mean that you're good," she said, laughing. "You have an eye for things." She started to talk about his use of shadow and composition, but Farkas just shook his head with a confused smile and shrugged.

"It's enough that you like them," he said.

She turned back to a drawing of three wolves: two dark gray ones and one tinged with ochre. Farkas actually had a wolf motif throughout his journal. It was probably his favorite animal, she guessed; that would explain what he'd sent her at Dunstad.

"This is quite good," she said, lightly tracing the nose of a wolf with her finger. She thought of the moth then. "I wonder if you'd draw something for me."

"Anything!" he said. "Well, I can do my best," he added. He looked excited, though.

She laughed, returned his journal, and turned over on her back again. "I've been thinking of a new tattoo," she said. "Seems I can't quite escape the gods here in Skyrim, so maybe I'll carry their totems with me."

Vilkas sighed. When she looked at him, however, he only shook his head and muttered, "It's nothing."

Gently, she touched the knotwork wolf icon he had on his right arm, just below his shoulder. It was Vilkas's only tattoo. Farkas, meanwhile, had an assortment of knotwork, runes, and sigils on his upper arms — "for courage in battle", "for victory", "for fear in my enemies", "to get a girl", and so on. He'd explained at the Drunken Huntsman that first time. But he, too, had this wolf among them.

"Do all the Companions have this?" she asked.

Vilkas shook his head. "Just us two. We got it to celebrate joining the Circle. Farkas drew this, actually. But, Brill held the needle."

Farkas was lazily tracing the bee and the moth on her ribcage again. "What did you want me to draw?"

Miel looked down at her body. "I haven't decided where it should go yet, but I'd like another moth," she said, running a finger over the eyes on the wings.

"Dibella's moth," Farkas said.

She smiled. Even though Bee's mother worshipped the Imperial Divines, when they were children, Agda had told them stories of the old Nord gods, too. Bee later found the totems in some temple library book, and when she completed her novitiate, she asked the tattooist for the moth. It had been rare to meet anyone in High Rock who recognized it, yet there were still people in Skyrim who remembered. Both twins loved the old tales, and Farkas especially liked the emblems in the Halls of Stories. One of his arms had Tsun's bear.

"Yes, the moth," Miel said, "and I want a hawk, too."

"For Kyne?" Vilkas said.

She puzzled at the look on his face; it was inscrutable. "Yes, for Kyne," she said. She then tapped Farkas on the shoulder. "And since you're so good at wolves, I want a wolf as well."

"For Mara," Farkas whispered.

"Mara?" Vilkas repeated softly, surprised.

Miel blushed. She closed her eyes, not knowing where to look. Her hand plucked nervously at the fur of the pelt as she realized what she'd just revealed. "Yes," she whispered, "Mara."

Breakfast was late, and so was their return to Whiterun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to think about how the Rift campaign of the civil war plays out, so it might be a while till the next update. Thanks for staying.
> 
> For the unfamiliar, each of the old Nord gods has an animal totem. You can [view the images on Fandom](https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Ancient_Nordic_Pantheon), which cites [Michael Kirkbride's tumblr](https://michaelkirkbride.tumblr.com/post/128602974278/excerpt-from-a-tesv-skyrim-design-document-with). It's hard to say how much of Skyrim's population goes for the Nine/Eight Divines vs. the old gods at the time of the game. But, even without imagining the trio hearing stories from Agda in their childhood, it's easy to imagine the twins hearing such tales from the old warriors of Jorrvaskr and Miel learning about the old gods during her religious studies.
> 
> Yes, no one has tattoos in the game, but so many pre-modern cultures have them in the real world, so why wouldn't the people of Tamriel, especially a bunch of warriors? For Farkas's runes and knotwork, just run a search for "Nordic staves" and "Nordic knotwork" for a general idea. I imagine Vilkas recognizes runes as magic and feels he doesn't need them on his body. Farkas just thinks they look cool.
> 
> There is an actual [spot](https://esomap.uesp.net/srmap.html?world=1&x=-33041&y=10096&zoom=16&displayState=Day) in the game where I imagined this chapter happening; I just stumbled across it while walking to Whiterun and thought it was perfect. There is a dragon mound in the area, but I didn't really feel like having a dragon crashing the trio's first date in months. Some screenshots are below. The campsite is the Camping CC item that Bethesda were giving away for free sometime ago. It might be what Vilkas's lean-to looked like, but Farkas has replaced it with a tent for more privacy.


	13. Chapter 13

Delphine had to be the most unlikable person Miel had ever met. After accusing her of being a Thalmor plant, then admitting to taking the horn, the innkeeper of the Sleeping Giant began to berate her for not coming earlier, yet still refused to tell her anything useful.

"In case you haven't noticed, there's a war going on!" Miel snapped. "If I hadn't planned to pass through Riverwood on my way to camp, I wouldn't have come at all."

"This is all wrong," Delphine said, agitated. "You were supposed to go to Ustengrav from High Hrothgar right away, then straight here. Then, we would have gone to Kynesgrove, and you would have proven to me that you're the Dragonborn!"

Miel was incredulous. Had she missed something? "Why do I need to prove anything to you? You're the one who needs to prove why I even need to talk to you. You take the horn to lure me here, and now that you have me, you won't say anything."

Inside, however, a chill went through her. She remembered hearing of the dragon attack on Kynesgrove last year. She had been gathering intelligence for Castle Dour, for what eventually became the mission at Korvanjund. Half the village had been razed before the Stormcloaks took the monster down. The other half now stood empty; the survivors had fled to other towns and cities for safety. Alfhild told her Balgruuf was planning to set a portion of the Plains District aside for refugees.

"Are you saying Kynesgrove could have been predicted?" Miel hissed. "How?"

Delphine shook her head. Then, she looked at Miel again and blinked. "You're the soldier. You're the one who got Farengar the Dragonstone."

A wave of recognition washed over Miel, too. "Farengar's contact," she said. "You were there in Whiterun the day I took that first dragon soul. Surely you saw it then, or heard of it!"

Delphine shook her head. The older woman began to pace. "No. Too convenient. You've been put up by the Thalmor as the face of the war, while they bring the dragons back from the dead to make it harder for either side to win."

Miel groaned. "I can't believe there are people who still believe this nonsense. Why would you believe me at Kynesgrove if you don't believe what happened at the watchtower?"

"Damn it, I should have vetted Farengar's errand girl before I told him about the stone," Delphine muttered. To Miel, she pressed, "How do they do it? What magic are they using to fool people into thinking you're Dragonborn?"

"Fus!"

Delphine staggered. Anything in the room that wasn't nailed or strapped to something went flying. Miel dared her to find an errand girl who could do that.

"Unbelievable," the older woman said, when the room stopped shaking. "Do they have a counter-cult to the Greybeards? You're barely 30. Did they pluck you from your parents and have you study the Voice until they could deploy you?"

Miel threw up her hands. "Gods above! You'll think of anything."

"The Thalmor made the moons disappear for two years. Who knows what else they're capable of? You might not even be aware that they've orchestrated your entire life up to this moment."

Miel began to laugh bitterly. "Yes, they had me spend 12 years with my peasant family, eight years studying for Dibellan priesthood, and another nine as a common footpad — surely, that was the best way to indoctrinate and prepare their puppet to take over Skyrim in the event a rebellion broke out."

Delphine shook her head, but Miel saw doubt creeping into her eyes. "I don't know that you're lying," she insisted.

A piece of parchment that had flown off the table and then fluttered over to Miel's side of the room, and she picked it up. It was a map of Skyrim, dotted with red marks in a line leading from the Jerall Mountains to Kynesgrove. The line continued with other marks, some in areas where Miel had, in fact, fought dragons in the past six months. The meaning of the line became clear to her.

"You've known," she said. "You've known, all this time, that there's a pattern to the dragon attacks. Have you told anyone? Don't the Jarls need to know, to protect the people?"

"I do tell them!" Delphine retorted. "I've been sending anonymous messages, like the one I left for you at Ustengrav. They aren't always believed."

"Well, imagine that. Telling the truth and not being believed." Miel folded the map and slipped it into her knapsack. She crossed to the other side of the table. Delphine stepped back, but all Bee did was pick up the horn.

"I hope I haven't broken it," she muttered. She pulled a kerchief out of a pouch and wrapped it around the ancient instrument before putting that in her pack, too. If Rikke let her take leave from camp, she might get to return to High Hrothgar at last.

At the thought of leave, she thought of Whiterun with a pang. She missed everyone there already. She sighed and made her way back toward the secret stairs.

"No, you can't leave!" Delphine said. "You've seen my face. You know where I hide."

Miel shrugged. "If you're so worried, find someplace else to hide. You've apparently evaded the Thalmor for so long — though you won't even say why they're after you. I'm sure you'll manage."

Delphine drew her dagger, and Miel gave a hollow laugh. "Delphine, I think you need me to believe you more than I need you to believe me," she said. "When I got here, you said I'd be dead if you didn't stay your hand. You couldn't even fetch the Dragonstone yourself, and you lived just down the mountain from the barrow. If you've seen and heard the things I've done, you know you won't be able to touch me. I'm going. I'm actually trying to help end this war. If you change your mind, send me another one of your mysterious notes."

"I know the Thalmor are behind the dragons. I will find proof, and you will be stopped!"

Miel shook her head. She hoped she'd never have to deal with this woman again.

She got on the war horse waiting outside and gave the boy a promised bit of coin for watching it. Despite her irritation, as she rode through the mountain pass, she couldn't help thinking of what Delphine had said. She was "supposed to" have gone to the Sleeping Giant much earlier. Was that right?

It couldn't have been. At the time, Bee hadn't known about any Thalmor conspiracy. The Greybeards had not made the retrieval of the horn seem urgent. Arngeir had even said she was exempt from their usual rules, because she had the Voice by Divine gift, not by their teachings. Returning the horn seemed mostly a symbolic act, for the sake of some ritual. The monks were not interested in politics or wars.

Yet, the thought that Kynesgrove had been predicted weighed on her. Was she, the Dragonborn, supposed to have saved that town?

Delphine had said something, too, about the dragons being raised from the dead. There had been rumors about that in the past several months. Some even claimed the dreaded black dragon was behind the resurrections. But, most people, Miel included, had dismissed this as wild imagining. If that were true, then the dragons that guards, soldiers, and other fighters killed on their own could simply be raised again. Miel needed to be there herself and take their souls.

Again, she didn't know if it was true, but something in her heart said it was. She must have killed or helped kill at least eight dragons by now. Her human mind could not comprehend the full knowledge of the centuries each soul had seen, only enough to understand and gain the power behind some of the Words. Yet, every time, she had felt a sense of finality — whatever else the dragon knew was now lost to time forever.

Delphine knew the Dragonborn could end the resurrections but had chosen to wait in paranoia, because she couldn't believe Miel was who she said she was, and because she didn't want to venture from that depressing cellar.

Bee thought then of what Vilkas had written, that they'd take care of her once she retired from soldiering so she wouldn't end up like Delphine. That was a comfort.

"Once again, Erandur, you are right about love," she said aloud. The horse only snorted. A spring drizzle began to speckle her face as she rode.

If Delphine was actually right, and the Thalmor were doing this to further divide Skyrim for their purposes, there had to be a way for Miel to find out. Would Tullius know? Would he even share that knowledge with her?

Another thought chilled her. Had Delphine told Castle Dour what was going on? If she had tried to warn the Jarls, surely she would have tried to tell the Legion, too. Or, was her mistrust of the Thalmor like that of half the Nords, equating the Imperial forces with the Aldmeri Dominion's? Yet, if there was a chance Tullius knew, and he had not sent Miel where she was truly needed —

Night had fallen by the time she reached camp. Soldiers were queueing for supper by the various cook pots at the edges. They were east of some strange Dwemer ruins, south of Ivarstead. Bee would have to find a spot to pitch her own tent and hope there would be food left — she thought wistfully of Farkas and his campfire feast — but she had things to do first.

She returned the borrowed horse to the cavalry master and went to find the Legates' tent. As usual, Rikke and Fasendil were pondering the tactical map.

"Reporting for duty, Legates."

"Ah, there you are, Quaestor," Rikke said. "We'll be trying to increase our foothold in the Rift this week. I hope you're rested, because you're moving again in a few hours."

Miel knew better than to complain, but she had not missed this part of duty at all.

The Stormcloaks knew the Rift would be too great a loss; it was one of Skyrim's food baskets besides Whiterun hold, with alternate trade routes to Cyrodiil and Morrowind. If the Legion took the Rift, the Stormcloaks would have to depend on Eastmarch's meager farms and the imports through Windhelm for supplies. Unless there were powers outside of Skyrim that would fund him and his army, Ulfric losing the war was simply a matter of time. Tullius expected the Stormcloaks to fight fiercely in the Rift to keep that from happening.

"We might have a breakthrough with Treva's Watch," Rikke said. She tapped a spot on the map by the Treva River, just a few hours' march from the camp. "The owner deserted the Stormcloaks when he heard his home was overrun by bandits. We mean to occupy the fort ourselves, but as a courtesy to him, we'll accept his defection."

Miel bit the inside of her cheek. If it had been any other Stormcloak deserter, he would have been in chains. But, if the Empire expected the Jarls to support Elisif after the war, the various nobles and courtiers had to be happy and comfortable. It wasn't fair.

Fasendil indicated another point on the map, north of the fort. "Stalleo has told us his platoon is still camped here, and they will want Treva's Watch as well. I'm taking some troops to head them off while you and yours take the fort, once everyone's fed and rested a bit."

"If we take the Watch, it will be easier to intercept Ulfric's reinforcements from Fort Amol while we target Fort Greenwall," Rikke said, "though it's possible they will avoid the rivers, skirt Northwind, and come through Shor's Stone. We'll see. Either way, I want this fort."

After the discussion ended, Fasendil left the tent to speak to his men. The soldiers liked him; he was an Altmer officer who nonetheless recognized the Thalmor's abuses and simply wanted the good of the Empire. He was an inspiring enough speaker, but he was also known to grant soldiers a bit of extra courage through Illusion magic when needed. Bee was a little sorry she would not get to see it in the coming battle. Perhaps, once they took Treva's Watch, he might teach her a few new spells.

Anyway, there was a more pressing concern. Rikke made to dismiss her, but Miel asked to speak.

"What is it?"

She pulled out Delphine's map and unfolded it onto the table. Rikke blanched, immediately confirming her fears.

"You know what this is," Miel said softly, accusingly.

The Legate closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You weren't supposed to," she answered.

"Why not?" Bee hissed. She didn't want anyone within earshot of the tent hearing, but she was angry. "I could have been out there, putting dragons down for good, instead of running your letters and doing your spying, and cooling my heels at Neugrad!" Errand girl, indeed.

"But, you did put dragons down, Miel," Rikke said. "Here, and here, and here. Here, too." The Legate pointed at various spots on Delphine's map. "You did that in the course of your work for us. If you hadn't taken out the ones near Autumnwatch, this camp wouldn't even be here."

"Fortunate coincidences! What about the ones I didn't kill? If this report that they'll come back to life is true, I need to be out there, Legate! I'm the only one who can make sure they stay dead." Bee paled. "Kynesgrove. Kynesgrove happened while I was in the field. I could have been there," she said softly.

Rikke sighed. She seemed tired. "We received a copy of this map from an anonymous source, and the warning about Kynesgrove, a few days before it happened. But, we had no way of knowing it was true. You have no idea how much misinformation our intelligence division has to sift through, Miel. Kynesgrove had to happen for us to believe."

"Had to happen?" Her blood began to boil.

Rikke winced. "You know what I mean. And, how would it have looked for us to send men there — a dozen red soldiers on Ulfric's doorstep?" She looked at the map. "After that, we had Whiterun. I believe the two dragons you fought there came from here, and here."

One of the spots was close to her campsite with the twins. That night could have gone much, much differently.

"And after that, you went to the Pale," Rikke said, "where we took Dunstad with fewer losses than if you hadn't been there to speed things along. You and that priest then broke a daedric curse. Are you saying you would rather have been elsewhere, Miel, instead of helping those people?"

All feeling drained out of Miel then.

"You can't be everywhere, soldier. And, we can't know everything at all the right times." 

Bee looked at Delphine's map, lying atop the larger map dotted with red and blue flags. "Were you ever going to let me know, Legate?" she asked. "Or, were you and General Tullius planning to keep me in the war and hope for the best?"

Rikke's face told her the answer, and Bee sighed in exasperation. "What's the point of fighting over Skyrim, if it'll be a charred wasteland by the time we're through?" she cried.

"I'll write to Tullius," Rikke said placatingly. "Immediately. We have someone working out the pattern of the map. I'll request that you be informed as soon as they've determined the next target."

"You'll request? What if that request is denied?"

Rikke looked into her eyes. Slowly, she slid Delphine's map across the table. "See if you can work it out on your own, or find someone who can help you," she said in a low voice. "As I'm your superior officer, I don't see why I can't dispatch you to where you're needed." Bee blinked in surprise, and Rikke sighed and dropped her head. "I belong to the Legion, but Skyrim is my home, too. What are we fighting for, indeed?"

After a pause, Bee apologized and offered to shake Rikke's hand. The Legate returned both the apology and the handshake.

"Where did you even get this map?" Rikke asked.

Miel shrugged. "I'm not sure, actually. They refused to say. What kind of people hide from the Thalmor?"

Rikke's eyes bulged. Again, she pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Forget it. I don't want to know where you got this," she said. She dismissed Miel, who went to see if there was any supper left.

Outside, she picked up a bowl of now-lukewarm cabbage soup. She passed comrades from Neugrad and Dunstad who called out, "Hey, Miel!" or "All right, Miel?" She set herself by one of their fires but wasn't in the mood to talk. She didn't quite listen, either.

Later, she lay atop her bedroll and tried to steal some sleep before the assault on Treva's Watch. She was furious at Tullius but knew fuming would only make it harder to nap. Instead, she thought of home.

Just last night, she'd had a nice hot meal of vegetable pot pie and salmon with the girls at home. It had been a sweet, quiet evening, playing with Lucia and the puppy, while Sofie chattered excitedly about her coming apprenticeship at Arcadia's Cauldron.

In the morning, the twins had stopped by at breakfast to bid their farewells before Farkas left Whiterun on a job. She had braced herself for a mountain of questions after telling the children she liked both men. But, as they were already used to the parade of various adults who minded their welfare at Breezehome, they hardly thought this detail consequential. In fact, they had already understood as much from their own observations. Lucia only wanted to know if she could borrow some of Vilkas's books.

Bee had attended to the house to make sure things were in order. Then, she'd left for the Sleeping Giant after the midday meal. How distant it all was now from this hard patch on the ground, the bland and oily soup, and the pointless boasting of her comrades by the fire. Distant, too, from the charred remains of Kynesgrove.

For the sake of everyone she loved, Miel was glad she had killed the dragons during the siege of Whiterun; Delphine's map suggested they were the closest to the city. But, what if there were more, biding their time in unmapped, unrecorded places? And, what if she was't there to stop them? She couldn't bear the thought.

This, she realized, was the reason she was there. She was not meant to fight in this blasted war, which suddenly seemed as petty as a children's quarrel. And, she was certainly not meant for guarding lumber mills and chickens, as she'd imagined when she first left Camlorn. Any soldier could do what she did. Only the Dragonborn could end the dragons.

A pair of legs appeared at the entrance to her tent. "Pardon me, Quaestor. The Legate said to tell you that we're moving out."

Bee sighed. Well, she thought, the sooner we finish, the sooner I can be where I'm supposed to be.

* * *

  
The fighting for Treva's Watch was bitter and lasted several days. Stalleo had shown Miel's unit how to infiltrate the castle from underground, and it had taken them only until the following nightfall to clear it of bandits. Rikke marched in with the rest of her forces almost as soon as the front gate was down. However, keeping the fort was harder than it seemed. The Stormcloaks from Faldar's Tooth rushed over to retake the Watch, and repelling them had taken more time. Miel's Voice was invaluable in doing so, but she had been distracted and did not fight as well as she could have.

Not long after the dust settled, a courier came bearing Tullius's response to Rikke's request. He was, in fact, interested in helping Miel end the dragon threat. It was getting harder to move troops across the province, and the Imperial City was growing reluctant to send reinforcements if a dragon could simply snap them up in an instant.

Before anything else, however, she needed to work with Fasendil after all; she had a week or so to learn some protection against Illusion magic. Tullius wanted her to join him at some fancy party in the north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tweaked continuity a bit. Unlike in the game, I figured Alduin wasn't going to wait around for the Dragonborn to show up at Kynesgrove.
> 
> Also, I really, really dislike Delphine and thought it would be interesting to see how much of the main questline could be managed without her.
> 
> \--  
> 08 Aug 20: Minor detail edit of where Bee was during the attack on Kynesgrove. In the earlier version, she said she was preparing for Korvanjund, then that she was at Fort Neugrad. Now, it's just the former.


	14. Chapter 14

As soon as he returned to Jorrvaskr, Farkas went to find Kodlak. Kodlak always said the right thing, though more often he only gave Farkas more to think about. But, talking to him was always good.

The old man was in his study, going over an old, heavy book with tiny print and taking notes on a separate piece of parchment. Farkas felt a pang at seeing his mentor squint at the pages. Kodlak looked every bit of his 70-odd years then.

In his heart, Farkas still saw Kodlak as the tall, fierce warrior who had filled him with awe when Jergen first brought the twins to Jorrvaskr. His memory of those years was hazy, but he would never forget Kodlak's booming laugh the day the Jarl's men came to take him and Vilkas to Honorhall. Kodlak had said to save them all the trip to Riften and just put his own name on the papers.

(Farkas Kodlacek certainly sounded better than Farkas Jergenson. But, out of respect to both men, he usually introduced himself as Farkas the Companion, or Farkas of Jorrvaskr.)

Now that Farkas recalled it, Kodlak had not yet been 40 and so had been closer to the twins' age now. Askar had still been Harbinger, and Kodlak, still in his prime as a warrior. His triumph with Skjor over the hundred-and-one Orc berserkers — only 40, to hear Skjor tell it — in the southwest had been fresh enough for him to have an aura of celebrity around Whiterun. He walked about fully aware of how strong and handsome he was, and would-be lovers practically threw themselves at his feet (again, to hear Skjor tell it — Kodlak had been a role model for Farkas in more ways than one).

Half the company had been surprised at the adoption and dismissed it as another of Whitemane's restless impulses. But Kodlak did, after all, have a strong sense of duty. The boys were Jergen's family, which made them his family, and family would not be shipped off to the orphanage and forgotten.

"Ah, Farkas, lad. Come in." Kodlak shut the book abruptly. Farkas would not have glimpsed much even up close, but the old man seemed nervous about something. The younger man also thought he heard wheezing — faint even for a werewolf's ears, but the longer they sat together, the more he was convinced.

"I wanted to talk to you," Kodlak began, "and the rest of the Circle, too. It's important."

Farkas paled. "What is it, Harbinger?"

Kodlak shook his head. "It can wait. I want you all together. You were the one who came to me now. What's on your mind?"

Now that he was there, Farkas wasn't sure where to begin. Only a few days had passed since their birthday; he was still elated, basking in the glow of his love confirmed. But, gnawing at the back of his mind was the fact he had also come the closest yet to telling Bee what he was.

The fact that she loved him made the secret even worse, tainting the beauty of what they'd begun. He was sure Vilkas was wrong; he should have told her earlier, so she had her eyes open before anything else. It would be worse if he told her now.

When she had gone to wash in the river that night, Vilkas had ranted about gods and the Voice and the beast blood. Most of it had escaped Farkas's understanding; all he gathered from his brother was that Bee was somehow too special to know the truth. He'd simply let Vilkas talk him down because he didn't want to spoil the night.

Yet, now that she was back on the war front, all he could think about was when she would return, and how close he might get to telling her then.

"I'm happy, Kodlak," was all he managed to say. "I'm really happy."

The Harbinger chuckled and clapped Farkas on the shoulder. "That's good, son. I'm glad for you. Vilkas did tell me your courtship was a success. I suppose not even the Dragonborn is immune to your charms."

Farkas grinned sheepishly.

"Are you going to carry on seeing other women?" Kodlak asked.

Farkas shrugged. "She's always said we could, but I don't know if I want to." In truth, since Balgruuf's feast, Farkas had rarely let his tavern flirtations get very far. Vilkas acted more freely; it was easy for him to lock his heart and mind away for Miel, her letters, and her visits. Farkas was too open, and maybe that was his problem.

"I want to tell her, Kodlak," he said. "I think she'd understand. I can't look into her eyes and not feel that she'd love me no matter what I am. But, I'm also afraid I'll hurt her. And Vilkas says we can't tell her, because we belong to different gods."

Kodlak nodded thoughtfully. "Your brother did tell me, too, what happened during the hunt. Kyne's peace." Farkas thought he detected a touch of longing in the old man's voice.

"He has an odd determination about it, though," Kodlak continued. "Vilkas intends to love Miel in defiance of the gods. Whether Hircine takes him, or Kyne punishes and destroys him, he intends to go knowing that he loves her. Miel is an embodiment of his doom, and I suppose that makes her all the more alluring to a man who lives for danger."

Again, Farkas felt lost. Punishment? Doom? Destruction? "Bee is home," he said softly, yet urgently. "Bee is songs and stories by the hearth fire, spiced mead on a winter's night, little children — "

His voice faltered. He was a little surprised at his own longing, but it had always been there. Why else had he insinuated himself into the routine at Breezehome? Yet, like his brother, he'd put it out of his mind after joining the Circle and taking the blood.

Kodlak put a hand on Farkas's shoulder again, more gently this time. "She is more than one thing, to more than one person," he said. "I have no doubt you'd be able to give her this pretty picture that you've drawn in your mind. But, do you think a werewolf belongs in that picture?"

At that moment, Farkas had an image of himself chasing Sofie and Lucia across the plains. The children's legs wouldn't carry them very far. When he caught them, would they be shrieking in laughter, or in terror? Would she watch, amused? Or would she rush in, sword drawn, to protect them? Farkas knew, he was no playful dog when he changed his skin. He never bared those teeth or claws without meaning to use them.

Kodlak leaned back. "I'm sorry, lad. I don't wish to tarnish your happiness any more than I shall this evening. Your romance is still young. But, I trust you'll do the right thing when the time comes."

"What do you mean, any more — ?"

There was a knock on the door. Skjor stuck his head into the room.

"Aela and Vilkas went ahead to the Underforge," he said. "We're ready when you are, Harbinger."

* * *

  
The rot. The old man had the rot. The wheezing Farkas had heard was the first sign. Kodlak assured them he had a few more years left if he submitted to the healers, but the treatment was costly, and the result was always the same.

"The cost doesn't matter," Skjor said. "We'll take smaller shares from the jobs. We'll take more jobs. But we're not ready to let you go to the Hunting Grounds just yet, old man."

At the mention of Hircine's realm, the Harbinger made a wry smile. "I appreciate it, Skjor, truly. I know I can't stop you if that's what you wish to do with your money. But, I wonder if you'll say the same when I share my plan for the time I have left?"

The next eldest in the Circle scowled. "This again," he muttered.

"I'm dying. This is what I want to do while I still live," Kodlak replied. He looked around at the others. Aela was solemn. Vilkas was brooding, angry. Farkas was sorrowful. All of them had eyes wet with tears, but they were doing their best to be strong.

"I've been having dreams," Kodlak said then.

Farkas felt the hairs on his arms stand up. The Harbinger rarely shared his dreams, but everyone knew the old man had a touch of second sight. It was how he knew whether an aspirant was worthy of a place at Jorrvaskr. And, more than once, he had given them strange advice before a job or a hunt, only for that advice to save their skins from grave injury or worse.

"In my dreams, I reach the whalebone bridge to Sovngarde, and Tsun issues me his challenge. Hircine waits to take me, but — " he paused, as though stopping himself from sharing something. "But, it appears I have a choice," he continued. "I want that choice. I want to search for a cure for the beast blood."

Aela bristled. "You speak of cures as though this is a disease. But, you know we're different breed from the common oaf who gets the blood by bite or scratch. Hircine gave this to the Circle himself. It's a gift, not a disease — not something to be cured."

Farkas wasn't sure who to side with. He didn't like Aela's tone with Kodlak. But, he had always believed what she'd said just now. It was a gift. They were powerful. They gained glory in every hunt.

He'd never worried about his afterlife because he tended to believe there wasn't one. There was only nothingness; this life was all he had to worry about, and he was still young and strong. But, the thoughts he'd first had in Shrouded Grove began to return. What was waiting for him at the end?

He thought of what Vilkas and Kodlak had said, about Kyne. In the tales, they called Kyne the Kiss at the End, taking the honored dead to Sovngarde. Was that what Kodlak had meant about Bee and doom? Vilkas probably felt he was tasting, stealing a kiss that didn't belong to him before he went to the Hunting Grounds, if they were real. Farkas clung to the hope that they weren't real.

"No one else has to take the cure if I find it," Kodlak said wearily. "I don't know that I shall find it at all. You are all still free to do as you please, just as I am free to spend my remaining days as I please." He looked at the twins then. "I only mean to prepare you for what's to come."

Vilkas shook his head. "I don't know what to think, Harbinger," he said gruffly. But after a pause, he added, "I'll help you with your research, if you wish. Not for me, but for you."

Skjor and Aela gave him dirty looks but softened at these last words.

Farkas spoke up then. "I'll help, too. Maybe not with the research, but whatever else needs doing around Jorrvaskr. Let me lighten your load, Kodlak." His voice nearly broke. "And, I'll work more, like Skjor said. You'll have all the years you can with us yet. No one will say we didn't fight this as long as we could."

Everyone else murmured the same, promising to help in their own ways. Kodlak nodded. "You have my thanks," he said. He looked at them all wistfully then. "You are all the family I have. We will tell the rest of the company another time, but let me say now, save your tears for when I'm gone. We can still have some happiness together before then."

Even Aela choked back a noise that was suspiciously like a sob. Skjor and Vilkas looked away. Farkas allowed his tears to flow, though he made no sound.

He wanted Bee. Bee would hold him and soothe him and tell him what to do with the grief just beginning to swell in his heart.

"Are you still hunting this evening?" Kodlak asked.

"Yes," Skjor said, "unless you want us to stay."

The Harbinger shook his head. "No, don't stop yourselves on my account. As I said, you are free to do as you please. I'm still strong enough to walk back to the mead hall by myself."

Vilkas eyed him warily, but there was no hint of judgment in the old man's voice. Farkas felt torn, but at the mere mention of the hunt, the beast in him had begun to pace restlessly, eager for release. His hunger grew. A nod from Vilkas was all he needed.

Outside, near Bleak Falls and Brittleshin, he let out a long and mournful howl.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you don't mind a really long chapter after that last short one.

The Thalmor had been pressuring Tullius to make introductions ever since Miel first reported to Castle Dour, but he had kept her out of their reach for as long as possible. For one thing, she was most useful in the field. For another, he knew the Thalmor would be eager to have her in their clutches. They didn't want another Tiber Septim uniting the Empire. And, Talos worship was bad enough; a potential Miel cult was simply out of the question.

More immediately, Tullius suspected that the Thalmor themselves supported the civil war. Miel had made it in fury, but her vow that Ulfric would not see another New Life might actually be realized, as long as the Legion had the Dragonborn on their side. Taking her out would allow Skyrim to continue ripping itself into shreds, until the Thalmor could simply walk in over the bones and take control.

And, like Delphine, Tullius suspected the Thalmor might have something to do with the dragons. Ambassador Elenwen went to Helgen herself to prevent Ulfric's execution and take him into her own custody. When she failed, the first dragon attacked. It was too much of a coincidence.

Whether by direct or indirect approaches, however, past attempts to gain the Thalmor's own knowledge of these affairs had failed. This wouldn't even be the first time Castle Dour tried to use one of Elenwen's parties to poke around her blasted solar, where the most sensitive documents were kept. Their operatives were always herded back to the reception hall or the courtyard. Attempting to bribe Embassy servants, on the other hand, often ended in those servants' disappearance. Tullius had even considered paying someone to pay someone to pay the Thieves Guild, but the Guild was a shadow of its former self, more likely to bungle than to burgle.

Finally taking the Dragonborn to one of Elenwen's stuffy soirees offered a new opportunity. She would provide a wonderful distraction while another agent infiltrated the solar. Yet, the opportunity brought danger with it.

Ulfric and Helgen had already proven that a simple gag was enough to silence the Voice. Magicka poison and enough shock magic could keep Miel from conjuring her atronachs for help. They could paralyze and abduct her, making the war less one-sided, and keep her until both armies were spent. They could torture her, physically and mentally, into becoming an asset of their own. Tullius had no doubt the Thalmor wanted more than a simple introduction to the Dragonborn.

Hence, the order to study with Legate Fasendil as much as she could. After arms training and supper each day, Miel reported to the officers' quarters at Treva's Watch and let Fasendil cast Illusion spells on her, to train and test her resistance.

According to the officer, though, there wasn't much they could do. Everything ultimately depended on her own willpower and her disposition.

"When your mind is clear and your will is strong, you are impervious to Illusion," Fasendil explained. "But, when you sparred with Hafiz in the yard today, I could have easily spelled you into a fury, because he's been grating on your nerves of late. You would have killed him." His tone was always matter-of-fact. "At other moments, when you're alone, and deep in thought, I sense your vulnerability to fear."

Bee knew exactly which moments he was talking about. There had been more than enough time, since the troops' move to Treva's Watch, for the first letters from Whiterun to arrive. Lydia, Alfhild, and the girls had written, but neither Farkas nor Vilkas had sent anything in a while. She tried to be hopeful, tried to assure herself the couriers were simply struggling to catch up in this part of Stormcloak territory. Yet, she felt, deep down, that something else was wrong.

At other times, she puzzled over Delphine's map and tried to work out the pattern of dragon resurrections herself. If her calculations were right, a spot near Rorikstead was next, but she couldn't tell an exact date. The idea that an unfortified farming town would be the next target — that another Kynesgrove would happen without her to stop it — set her heart to panic.

She wanted to ask Vilkas for help, but she waited for him to break his silence. Farengar was probably a better candidate; after all, he'd been the one to align the markings on the Dragonstone with the map of the province. But, she was torn. She wanted someone close to share the burden, yet she wasn't sure if it was a burden for sharing at all.

When Fasendil did practice spells on her, the most they usually did was give Miel a taste for them. Calm was a pleasant fog, fury clouded her vision with red, fear crept over her skin like a cold syrup, and charm was like a warm liqueur. But again, the state of her mind affected everything.

"You know I intend to cast, and so you guard your mind accordingly; calm, fear, and fury thus slide off you like oil," Fasendil explained. "But, on the other hand, you're already disposed to trust me; I could charm you into telling me all your secrets, or doing anything I asked."

In fact, his first demonstration of the charm spell gained him the names of all the people she wrote letters to, as well as several embarrassing stories from her past. The Legate was simply too kind and professional to tease her.

Over the week, Bee learned to regain enough clarity to help her obfuscate the truth under charmed questioning, some of the time. Still, she was glad the charm spell had been outlawed in Skyrim.

"I suppose it helps that you won't at all be among friends at the Embassy," Fasendil said. "Sharks and slaughterfish, every last one of them. Knowing this, and knowing they might use these spells, might help you stay alert. Worse comes to worst, pray your Breton blood protects you, and that the gods do the rest."

As for casting Illusion spells herself, Miel had some of her comrades' permission to practice on them. But, by the time she had to leave Treva's Watch, she could only manage to influence those she would have fooled with her own wits, anyway. In the end, as Fasendil said, those wits were all she could rely on.

* * *

  
Two days before the party, she arrived at Castle Dour.

Miel did not forget Tullius's deceit. Before he could launch into his plan for the party, she demanded to know why he'd kept the dragon pattern from her.

He had a cold, remorseless look. "The timing was difficult, as I believe Rikke explained to you. I stand by sending you where you've been, because of the good you've done every time," he said plainly. "But yes, you should have been informed."

Miel waited, then realized this was the closest he would come to an apology. She sighed through her nose and nodded.

"And has our intelligence worked out the next target? Sir?" she added.

"Near Rorikstead. Likely a week from now. But, if you get through this, I will send you there as soon as possible, to be sure."

A great weight lifted from her shoulders. That was one less thing for her to worry about at the Embassy.

"What do I do at this party, then?" she said.

"Just stay at it. Stay within my sight, and with the crowd. Be the pretty bird everyone watches while my agent infiltrates the solar. If Elenwen invites you inside for an interview — "

"An interrogation?" 

"Yes. That might actually make it easier for our agent to poke around, as long as you keep the Thalmor distracted," Tullius said. "Act a little stupider than you are, so Elenwen doesn't see you as an intelligent threat."

Miel could not suppress a groan. "Is it too late to be sent back to the front?"

Tullius sighed deeply. "Focus," he warned. "If you're taken into the solar, there's no guarantee you'll get out the way you came. Our agent will try to help you, but if she gets caught, too — I could stand outside raising Oblivion if you went missing, but Elenwen can claim you left the party early, or that you even submitted to the Thalmor willingly. That would be a disaster for our esteem in Skyrim, such as it is, to say nothing of how it would affect the war."

"So, what do I do if I'm taken prisoner?"

Tullius motioned to a man in the corner. Legate Adventus Caesennius usually stood there, motionless and silent, while Tullius and Rikke did their bickering. He took out a map of Haafingar.

"They'll likely stow you in Northwatch Keep until they can move you out of the province," Adventus said, pointing to the northwestern corner. "Or, they might keep you under the solar itself. My scouts say there's a tunnel for the disposal of dead prisoners. You can do your best to escape." He tapped more spots on the map. "We'll have spies watching both the tunnel and the entrances to Northwatch. If there's no sign of you by the end of the party, we'll be sending mercenaries after you. Legionnaires can't be seen attacking the Thalmor."

Miel grew impressed. "You've been planning this for some time," she realized.

The General looked pleased, but he credited Adventus with much of the plan. "We were only waiting for the Ambassador's next invitation," Tullius replied. "I would have called you from the Rift even if Rikke hadn't written about your little discovery. You need to tell us where you got that intelligence, by the way."

As far as Miel was concerned now, she could trust the General. She imagined Delphine would have sent her into this snake pit alone.

"Have you heard of anyone called Delphine?" she asked. "Blonde, about your age, fair Breton?"

Tullius shook his head.

"She claims to work for a group that has been looking for the Dragonborn, but from what I could tell, she's entirely alone, and too paranoid about the Thalmor to make much progress without allies. Balgruuf's wizard might know who she is, but I haven't had the chance to ask him. The artifact that helped to produce the dragon map — he heard about it from her."

Adventus stroked his chin. "Likely part of a Talos cult. Possibly a survivor of one of the former noble houses that the Thalmor pulled down. By the Eight, I wouldn't be surprised if she were a Blade; they were crafty bastards. Kind of a cult themselves," he said. "How did she contact you?"

"She stole a Greybeard artifact. I was forced to meet her on my way to the Rift, just to get it back." The Greybeards had not been too concerned about Miel's lateness, however. Time was probably all the same to them.

"I don't know if she's still there," she continued. "Likely scarpered, because she refused to trust me. She thought I was a Thalmor spy."

Tullius let out a short bark of a laugh.

Miel then asked, "Are you going to introduce me to the agent I'm supposed to cover?"

Adventus shook his head. "For your own deniability. I will, however, tell you the names of Embassy servants you can trust. Accept food or drink only from them. They can also slip you potions, if you've been poisoned."

"Avoid strong drink at the party, however," Tullius added. "The clearer your mind is, the better."

Miel did not look forward to this party at all.

* * *

  
They went over the plans a few more times before Tullius dismissed her. Miel then headed for the public bathhouse between the Winking Skeever and the apothecary.

It felt good to remove the dust and soreness of travel from her body. The sound of laughter and chatter in the women's area recalled the pleasant atmosphere of the Camlorn temple baths. Though many of the patrons in Solitude were just as likely to be soldiers themselves, it was a welcome change from the strutting and jostling in the barracks. She closed her eyes and tried to let her thoughts dissolve.

This mission was different from going to war, even from helping Erandur with the Skull. When it came to war and battle, the outcomes were clear: she would either live or die. On her feet, or in a box, there was no question of her coming home again. But, she had no idea what awaited her at the Thalmor Embassy, or whether she would return. She trusted Castle Dour's planning, of course, but there was always the small chance that something would go wrong.

At the inn, she had the urge to write home, and she asked for a quill and paper, along with the stew of the day and some ale. Once she had taken a table to herself, however, she wasn't sure what to write — I love you, please take care of the girls if I get kidnapped by the Thalmor, I'm sorry that the dragons won't stay dead? She kept picking the quill up and putting it back down.

A soldier dropped himself into the chair across her. "Tertius Galenus, comrade," he said. "I don't think I've seen you around the barracks. I'm sure I would have noticed a face like yours." He had classic Colovian Imperial features and an accent to match. Miel might have found him handsome, if not for his superior smirk and leery gaze.

"Miel." She shook his hand politely. She never gave her full name to strangers these days. It always caused awkward shifts in the conversation, if it didn't end conversation entirely. In any case, she was not interested in talking to Tertius Galenus. She pointedly looked back at the paper and tried to look busy with her quill.

"Just Miel? Family or father not worth mentioning, eh? Everyone back in Chorrol knows the Galenus family. We've been soldiering for generations."

This failed to get an impressed look out of her, but he continued. "I knew all about the soldier's life from my father and grandfather before I even took the oath myself. Here," he said, putting his hand on top of hers, "if you need anyone to show you how things are done, just look for me."

Miel snorted and pulled back her hand. She heard snickers from the table of soldiers next to her and guessed they were Tertius's friends. About half of them were Colovians, too, but all of them were clearly cads.

He was probably a few years younger than her, but if he came from a martial family, as he'd suggested, Tertius likely had as much experience in the Legion as she did before Skyrim. He was the sort who joined for tradition and pride. Miel and her father had joined for lack of options. She never could quite get along with those who saw dominance as a sort of birthright.

"I'm sorry," she said coolly, "I'm trying to write a letter, and it's hard with you talking to me."

"Yes, I tend to have that effect on women, even my female comrades."

"Ha!"

This was not the reaction he hoped for, she guessed, but he tried again. "Are you writing home? Did I detect a High Rock accent there? I should have known by your name, I suppose. Your coloring makes you hard to place, but I like an exotic bird." Miel closed her eyes and sighed through her nose.

"The homesickness does get to you around here," Tertius continued. "I can help you with that, too." He pulled the quill from her hand. Miel made a sound of indignant shock. "Why don't we go upstairs? I'll help you forget all your troubles, Miel of High Rock."

A shadow fell over the table. "Or, save the courier a trip, love, and just tell me what's on your mind."

"Farkas!"

She leapt from the table and greeted him gratefully, warmly, to the delight and jeering of the nearest tables. Farkas reciprocated, squeezing her tight and lifting her off the ground.

"Careful, Companion!" a sellsword called out. "Don't want to be seen in bed with the Empire now!"

Farkas answered this with rude gestures and taunts, but in jest; he seemed to be friends with the person. Miel pointedly ignored the soldiers, though. She could tell the sellsword's teasing from this group's meaner, more scornful tone.

"Found some local mutt, I see," Tertius muttered. "Let me know when you want a Colovian thoroughbred, 'love'."

He retreated to his friends. Farkas raised an eyebrow and brought more chairs to her table.

"Please, I don't want to waste my breath." Her voice grew excited again. She couldn't believe her luck. "Shall I expect Vilkas, too? You and other Companions here for work?"

When Farkas smiled, however, she noticed it wasn't his usual grin. In fact, compared with his usual air, there was something absolutely mournful about him.

"What's wrong?" she asked. She covered his hand with hers. He turned his palm upwards so that he could brush her knuckles with his thumb. His mouth was a line.

"Let's wait for the others," he said softly. "What about you? Your letter didn't mention why you'd be in Solitude. I thought you were needed on the front."

"You did get my letters, then," she replied.

He looked down at the table. "Sorry," was all he said. He then nodded at her food. "You going to eat your stew?"

She tore off a chunk of bread and offered it to him, but he wanted to wait. "How are the girls?" she asked.

This, they could talk about, and she watched with some comfort as Farkas's expression grew lighter. Sofie's apprenticeship was going well, though she was better with money than alchemy itself. Lucia seemed a little lonely now that her sister was spending more time in the shop, but she had friends in the neighborhood to play with still. Lydia was struggling to housebreak Tirdas.

Farkas was relating something about the puppy and stolen meat when Vilkas finally arrived. A grizzled warrior with thick white locks, a full beard, and Companions armor stood close by.

"Well," Vilkas cried. "We're just in time, it seems. Hello, Miel."

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. The soldiers' table had grown rowdy again during her conversation with Farkas, but Miel heard sniggering from that direction. She acted as though no one was there.

Farkas had gotten to his feet, and he gestured now at the third man. "Bee," he said, "this is Kodlak. Kodlak, this is our friend, Bee. Miel. Ah, you know, the Dra — "

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Harbinger," she said hurriedly. They shook hands.

Kodlak's grip was strong, and she felt as though his eyes could see right through her. They were as pale as the twins', she realized. It was such a rare color, even among the fairest Nords. Perhaps he and the twins were actually related to one another somehow, though she could see little other resemblance on this first meeting.

"You have a certain strength of spirit," Kodlak said warmly. Both twins looked pleased at this. "I suppose it's your Breton side that makes you small — ? But, that hasn't made you any less fearsome in battle, I've heard. These two have all sorts of tales."

"Thank you," she said humbly. "I hope I don't disappoint." She had imagined meeting Kodlak Whitemane in Whiterun, perhaps in Jorrvaskr itself, and ideally when she wasn't showing the wear of a long ride from the Rift. He didn't seem to mind. As they all took their seats, Vilkas ordered food and drink.

Miel asked, "What brings you all to Solitude?"

Kodlak smiled. "Well, you did, in part. The lads are here to discuss a contract, and your last letter said you would be in town as well. I thought I'd tag along, visit some old friends at the College, and do a bit of study in the library while they were busy," he said. "The bards have quite the trove of historical resources here, though it can be hard to separate the poetic from the true." He laid a hand on Vilkas's shoulder. "It's all quite fascinating. This one had to tear me away to come and eat something."

Sorex Vinius came by and clumsily set down more bread and stew. Even at his age, Kodlak ate as much as the twins. Miel supposed it was the Nord appetite.

They talked a bit about history and songs. Farkas was mostly quiet, though he seemed content enough to watch how she and Kodlak got on. She realized with some amusement that this might be some kind of test, so she was as charming as possible — without Illusion; that wouldn't have worked on the Harbinger, anyway.

"I remember now. I knew your mother when she was a healer in Whiterun," Kodlak said. "Saved my hide more than once, when I still ran wild like these two. You have some of Agda's looks about you, though your color is more Guillaume's."

"Did you know my father, too?" she asked, excited. As long as he didn't say anything about who Skyrim belonged to, his comments about her appearance were easier to ignore than Tertius's.

"Aye. Nearly broke my arm once. You might have been a full Nord, if he hadn't beaten me to Agda's heart," he said. "How is young Guillaume?"

Vilkas groaned, but Bee laughed. "Not so young now, but still strong," she said. "I'll mention you to him in my next letter."

"That would be kind of you." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "He had nothing to worry about, you know. I wasn't serious about Agda, or anyone. But your parents were quite serious for one another; it was something fierce."

Kodlak then asked her about being Dragonborn. Tertius's table didn't seem to notice; they were singing Colovian war songs. She tried to answer the Harbinger's questions, but there was much she still didn't understand. "That's actually why I'm here in Solitude," she said. "Doing a bit of research myself."

"Ah! So, will we be seeing each other at the library, then?"

Not unless that library was in Elenwen's solar.

"Oh, well, ah — it's Castle Dour's sort of research," she managed.

All three Companions' eyebrows rose. They might not have looked much like Kodlak, but Farkas and Vilkas had so many of his expressions and mannerisms. It was fun to see.

"Let's not talk about that, then," Kodlak said. "What about Jorrvaskr? Have you given any thought to joining us there?"

"I've been on her about it," Farkas put in.

"She's loyal to the Legion yet," Vilkas added.

Kodlak regarded her thoughtfully. Again, Miel felt she was being measured. "Well, I don't trifle with other people's loyalties, as your parents can attest," he finally said. "But, if you ever tire of soldiering, our doors are open to you."

"Thank you," she said. She might actually take him up on that one day. This whole dragon business had unsettled her about soldiering, but she couldn't say so at the moment. Half the tables in the Skeever, not just the one with Tertius and his friends, were occupied by soldiers.

Kodlak nodded. "All right. I see some old friends over there. Please excuse me. I'll leave you young people to enjoy the rest of the evening."

Miel shook hands with him again, and he joined a different table headed by Belrand, across the room.

Farkas, sitting the closest, kissed her temple. "He likes you," he said proudly.

Vilkas smiled. "He does." He quickly clasped her hand on the table and let go again.

Without Kodlak to buffer them, however, the strange sadness Bee had seen in Farkas returned, doubled.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong now?" she asked.

Farkas bit the inside of his cheek and leaned back in his chair. Both he and Vilkas looked away.

She sighed. The exhaustion of the day, which had begun before dawn with her ride from Treva's Watch and nearly ended with the war room discussion, began to weigh her down. The noise at the soldiers' table had been almost non-stop throughout the conversation with Kodlak. As much as she sensed that it was difficult for the twins to speak, if they kept silent like this and she didn't rest soon, she would get snappish.

Miel drained her tankard and stood. "If that's all, I'm going to settle up with Corpulus and then head upstairs." She didn't wait for a response and went straight to the bar.

Farkas was soon at her elbow. "We'll come with you. If you want. We can try to talk there." He paid Corpulus for the men's meal and left extra coins for Kodlak's drinks.

Miel was annoyed and wasn't sure where to direct the feeling. She should have been glad for the surprise of seeing them, and meeting Kodlak, too, but her purpose here in Haafingar lurked in the back of her mind. She knew something was wrong, was frustrated the twins wouldn't tell her, and then frustrated at herself for expecting them to tell her what was clearly a difficult thing. She was angry at being too tired to make the most of a rare time together. She was angry that such times were so rare. And, her skin was crawling with the sense that Tertius was still leering at her from across the room.

"Corpulus, would you mind sending up a bottle of something as well?" she said, dropping another handful of septims. "Maybe some of the Sans' wine, if you have it."

"Of course," he said.

Vilkas stood as she neared him again.

"Breton whore."

"Who said that?" the twins roared. Silence fell in their area of the tavern.

Miel didn't need to ask. She put a hand on Vilkas's chest to stop him from rushing the soldiers' table, and she looked Tertius in the eye.

"Speak to me like that again, and there will be no Quartus Galenus," she said coldly. She then addressed the other soldiers. "What time does your unit take the yard tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock," one mumbled, before Tertius could stop him.

"Perfect," she said. "I'm sure Captain Aldis won't mind if I join you. Till then, gentlemen."

* * *

  
Upstairs, she stripped down to her tunic and threw herself onto the bed. Everything was just too much. The front lines waiting for her in the Rift. The dragon menace. The mission at the Embassy. Whatever the twins weren't telling her. And, now, this grunt nonsense.

Solitude was not Whiterun. The former was a port city and the capital, more cosmopolitan and more diverse in the people who passed through its gates. That only meant a wider gamut of views, from the much more free to the much more traditional. Nominally, people here respected one another — much more than in Windhelm, clearly — but there were still prejudices bubbling underneath.

What's more, Farkas, Vilkas, and she herself, she supposed, were known and respected well enough in Whiterun. Anyone there who disapproved of their relationship was more likely to turn a blind eye. Even so, she realized perception, not merely personality, might explain why Vilkas reserved his affection for letters, or when they were alone.

She felt the bed take someone else's weight, and then there was a hand on her back. She knew by his touch; she moaned gratefully as Vilkas began to knead the muscles in her shoulders. She heard his soft laughter and was content to let him work. When his hands began venturing lower, however, she turned over and made him stop.

"Hold on," she said. "We were supposed to talk."

Vilkas's mouth curled up in a smile. He bent closer and kissed her properly for the first time since meeting downstairs. "Are you sure?" he said. "We can also not talk."

She laughed but reluctantly pushed him away. "Come on now. I want to know. If you can't say it in a letter and can't say it downstairs with Kodlak, can you say it here, with just me?"

Vilkas winced and scowled at the sound of the Harbinger's name. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, with his back to Miel. As she sat up, Farkas came with the wine, dragged over a chair, and handed her a cup.

"Around the time we got your letter saying you'd be in Solitude this week," he began, pouring, "we got another letter asking us to help a different crew with a security job. You know about Safia and the Red Wave?"

She did. The pirate crew had been docked in Solitude for months, awaiting repairs on their ship. Everyone seemed to know they were trafficking contraband even without use of their ship, but no one could find any proof. They could not be arrested, anyway; Captain Safia had a privateer's contract with one of the Breton kingdoms and was untouchable. Apparently, they were moonlighting as mercenaries now, too.

"She was offering us a ridiculous amount of gold — "

"Ludicrous," Vilkas put in, helping himself to the wine.

" — to help guard some noble lady at a party." Farkas reached into his pouch and pulled out a twice-folded piece of paper with a broken seal.

> Wanted: two Companions to assist in security for niece of Lord Harold Stone-Shoulders (Markarth) at party, Haafingar. Will cover travel expenses to discuss contract in Solitude. 500 to 2000s for each Companion depending on performance.  
> – Capt. Safia, Red Wave

"No one offers 4000 septims for two guards at a party," Vilkas said. "No one. I thought it was a joke, but we came to look into it anyway. The Stone-Shoulders are a real Markarth house — not as powerful or popular as the Silver-Bloods, but still rich. Kodlak wanted to go to Solitude. You said you'd be here as well. Even if the contract was worthless, we had an excuse to travel."

"So, we went to the Red Wave this afternoon," Farkas continued. "Safia told us we wouldn't actually be at the party, but somewhere near Northwatch Keep. Lord Harold thinks the Thalmor are going to kidnap this niece of his, some Lady Debora Colm or Colum — "

"Calum," Vilkas said.

" — and if it happened, we'd stop them before they got to the keep. Safia's people would have a boat waiting and everything."

Miel felt a wave of cold. "Northwatch Keep?"

Vilkas nodded. "Safia would give us 500 each just to wait somewhere nearby," he said, "and another 500 if we stayed until an all-clear was given. We'd get the full 2000 if the kidnapping actually took place, and we managed to stop it. Up to 4000 pieces between us for a single night's work."

Miel swallowed. "Did — did you say you would do it?"

Farkas shook his head. "Safia barely mentioned the Thalmor, and she had to stop us leaving the ship." He picked up the bottle from the floor and poured himself more wine. "Whiterun is a Legion city now. If those elves knew we were planning something against them — if they saw us in this armor, stepping in for this lady — they could just walk in and burn Jorrvaskr to the ground."

He watched the dark liquid swirl in his cup. "She begged us to think about it till tomorrow. I don't know anymore." He sighed. "Let's say nothing happens. That's still 2000 septims. We don't normally work with Safia's crew, but — the Companions could use the money."

"What? Are people still avoiding you after Whiterun?"

The twins traded looks, as though silently arguing over who would have to speak. Finally, Farkas sighed.

"It's not that, Bee. It's — Kodlak is sick," he answered. "He told us a little after our birthday. He has the rot. Danica says he has a few years left."

"That's why he's here with us in Solitude," Vilkas added. "Studying our history to — to make sense of his place in it, I think." He drained his cup. "We all swore we'd do whatever we could to have him treated, so he'd have all the years he can still. It's the only reason we've given Safia's proposal the time of day."

Miel had no words. No wonder they hadn't written. No wonder they'd been so strange at the table. They were beginning to grieve a father who was still with them and would soon be wasting away. She thought of the man she had met — jovial, sharp, and still so full of life — and she tasted a bit of their sorrow.

Farkas's eyes were wet now. Vilkas looked away. Miel wavered between which brother to comfort, but Vilkas made it easy by standing up and beginning to pace the room. Farkas put his cup down and gathered her into his lap.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I wish you'd just written to tell me, but I see why you couldn't. I can't imagine how you feel."

Actually, she could. Two years did not feel that long after Agda's death. Healers couldn't fix everything. She felt Farkas tremble as he tightened his arms around her.

"I missed you so much," he whispered.

"I wish I'd been there," she replied.

All of them were silent for a while. Vilkas returned to the bed and lay back, one hand over his face and his legs dangling over the edge.

For Miel, these heavy regrets now came with others. She swallowed. Unless there were two different women the Thalmor needed to disappear from this party, she was sure the Companions had been lured to Haafingar for her sake.

"This Thalmor party — it wouldn't be this Loredas evening at the Embassy, would it?" she asked quietly.

Vilkas bolted upright with a start, and Farkas held her away from him. Miel winced. She moved back to sit on the bed. She played nervously with the hem of her tunic and avoided their eyes. By the gods, what a mess.

"Don't take the job," she finally said.

Vilkas then stood over her with his arms crossed, and Farkas edged the chair closer to the bed.

"Do you know something we don't?" Vilkas demanded, his voice low.

"I think — " she faltered, looking past them at the windows and the door.

"There's no one else here," Farkas said.

"How — "

"Just tell us what you know," Vilkas pressed.

Miel sighed. "If I tell you, it'll be a major breach on my part. No one is supposed to know." She looked each of them in the eye, and they nodded.

"Do you remember, Vilkas, when I asked you to go to the Sleeping Giant for me? The woman there, Delphine — she and Tullius think the Thalmor are behind the dragons. Tullius thinks the dragons are their way of stretching the war."

Their eyes widened.

She took a breath. "He also thinks the Thalmor want to take me out of the picture, because I can end the war faster, and because I'm the only one who can kill a dragon for good. Castle Dour wants to know what the Thalmor know about all this — the war and the dragons. So, Tullius plans to use me as bait."

"What?"

"No!"

"At the Embassy, I'm to distract the Thalmor while one of our agents searches for clues," she continued. "If I disappear from the party, Tullius plans to hire mercenaries to rescue me from Northwatch Keep. I think — I think that's why you're here."

Something Farkas had said returned to her, and another piece seemed to fall into place. Tullius had told her to play the pretty bird. "I think Lady Debora Calum is me. 'Debora' means 'bee'. 'Calum' means 'dove'."

"Dove for Dovahkiin?" Farkas offered.

She was glad for a laugh. "I think I like that better."

Vilkas growled. "Did you know about this, then? This ruse with Lord Harold and Safia?"

Quickly, she shook her head. "Tullius didn't give me the extent of his plan until today. Not the full extent, apparently. I'm just a pawn in this." She snorted. "He knows the Companions won't take money from Castle Dour. I suppose he's using Lord Harold to hire you, by way of Safia."

She reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him mid-pace. "Don't take the job, Vilkas. Don't test the Thalmor. You're the Companions. You'll find other ways to make that money."

Vilkas snatched his hand back. He looked the angriest she had ever seen. "You don't understand at all, do you?" he hissed. "You heard Farkas. We told Safia no. We were going to say no again tomorrow. Knowing it's Legion money now would have made it easier. But — "

"But, knowing it's for you — " Farkas began.

Miel's heart dropped into her stomach. "No. No," she cried. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want you to do this for me! Nothing will happen, all right? I'll leave that party the way I came in. You won't even make the full 4000."

Lightning fast, Farkas grabbed both of her hands and held her wrists together in a tight grip. She gasped.

"I was wrong. It's not about money," he said coldly. "They're going to take your weapons at the door. They'll find a way to take your magic and your Voice, too. And then, they will break you. I will go to Northwatch Keep before they do, and — Ysmir's beard, sweetheart — I will do it for free."

She shivered, wrenching her hands out of his grasp. His eyes had a gleam she'd last seen in Vilkas, during the hunt of the deer.

"No," she said weakly. "You can't."

Farkas laughed, with none of his warmth. "Can I tell _you_ what to do?" he asked. "Can I ask _you_ not to go walking into their trap?"

Tears stung her eyes. If what they found at the Embassy could stop the dragons, or stop the war, or even stop both, she had to go. The thought of Kynesgrove hounded her. The thought of Rorikstead loomed ahead. The thought of Whiterun was always there.

"No," she said again.

Vilkas rested a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I think we've had enough talking for tonight," he said evenly. "We won't take the job, Miel."

He and Farkas exchanged a cryptic look. She was not reassured.

"Farkas just said the job was irrelevant," she replied.

Farkas's expression softened. Slowly, he took her hands again and massaged her wrists with his thumbs. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me," she said. "I was just — surprised." The times he'd used his strength on her in the past were quite different, to say the least.

He sighed and let her go. "We're already losing Kodlak, Bee. I'm done for if we lose you, too."

This was the Farkas she knew, but a bit of new fear remained. He and Vilkas were more alike than she'd thought.

And, he was right, of course. They were all done for; the dragons would win if she disappeared.

"Why don't you go check on Kodlak?" Vilkas said to him. "Make sure he's settled in, and he knows where we are. Unless you'd rather we both leave — ?"

He was looking at her. They both were.

"No," she said, for the last time that night. "Stay, Vilkas. Farkas — "

"I'll see Kodlak, and then I'm taking a walk. Just to clear my head."

"Farkas," she pleaded.

"I'll be back before you know it, love. Trust me." He kissed her, and then he was gone.

* * *

  
Vilkas was slow and deliberate, extremely attentive, taking his time in all the things no letter could contain, helping her to let go of everything weighing her down. When they were through, all Miel could do was sleep.

In the gray hours before dawn, she felt Farkas pulling her toward him, hungry, needy, whispering, "I told you I'd be back." She woke for him, then slept again. She thought she smelled pine, and that he tasted faintly of blood, and of the sea. But, perhaps that part was only a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charm is no longer available as an Illusion spell in Skyrim; my headcanon is that it's been outlawed, but the Thalmor are more than willing to use it to extract information from a pliable target. My ideas of how Illusion works are based on the second paragraph of [Mystery of Talara pt. 4](https://www.imperial-library.info/content/mystery-talara-part-4) and [r/teslore threads like this one](https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/e4zejp/can_anyone_resist_illusion_magic/). All of Mystery of Talara is great, btw.
> 
> I understand some people might be uncomfortable with the way Farkas manhandles Miel during the argument. It's a tricky thing. She might enjoy being roughed up a bit (when you're under a ton of stress from being one of the most powerful beings in the land, you need outlets), but even she knows this is different. Has he crossed a line he can't uncross? I've tried and will keep trying to be delicate about it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a cue from other others: From now on, the warning-y things are going to be in the end notes.
> 
> I'm not that happy with this chapter, because it's mostly introspection. But, I'm tired of picking at it and want the story to get out of Haafingar already. I do know where I'm going; I've just gotten bogged down in this part of it. There are minor retcon things, particularly through Vilkas's observations, as my ideas solidify regarding what the Dragonborn is like. Guess that's what happens when the story is made up in semi-serial installments, like when a TV show gets stuck in a certain plotline and has to course-correct.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Sunlight was only beginning to peek through the windows of the Winking Skeever, but Vilkas was already sitting up, reading one of the books he and Kodlak had borrowed from the College. Miel slept by his side, with Farkas curled up around her, and her breath and heartbeat made a soothing rhythm.

The project ahead was difficult. Kodlak wanted to find the very first mention of Hircine's gift in relation to the Companions, and that meant going through thousands of years of history. For all they knew, the beast blood was first granted to Jeek of the River himself, and the Companions had zealously guarded the secret in all that time.

Though he'd promised Kodlak to help, actually going through the books himself, and seeing the old man poring over the pages, made Vilkas uncertain. He wanted Kodlak's last wish fulfilled. But, a guilty part of him hoped these studies would not bear fruit.

He didn't need to take the cure himself, of course, but Kodlak's wisdom had never failed him, and if Kodlak thought this was right, what did that mean for him? If they succeeded, what then? Other fighters Vilkas's age already struggled to keep up with younger ones. If he took the cure, would he still be strong? Would he still be himself? If he thought back to what he had been like before the blood, he remembered only a man who had spent his youth living up to take it. And, once he'd had it, there had always been the hunt, calling him on. What would he live for if it was taken from him?

He'd still have the Companions, he supposed, if his skills survived the cure. He'd have his brother. And, he'd have Miel.

Miel fidgeted in a dream, and he glanced at her. Would he still have her indeed? Would he still be the man she fell in love with? What would it be like, to no longer be able to hear her heartbeat, or to sense the change in the air around her when she wanted him? Would she feel his touch was the same? She loved his mind, too, sure, and his caustic humor, but how much of all that was still sharpened by a beast's senses?

Vilkas could take comfort in the fact that there were only so many books they could go through in a few days, and then they would return to Whiterun, where Kodlak's progress would be hindered by distance and discretion. There was little they could write in letters of request before a corresponding scholar got suspicious, so it was best if they did most of the research themselves. And, he had new bloods to train and contracts to fill, so he couldn't help the Harbinger all the time. These questions would go dormant. Kodlak was already thinking of making these trips to Solitude monthly, though.

Of course, there were other, more urgent things to worry about. Vilkas sensed that Miel was waking.

Immediately, Farkas's eyes shot open. He slowly maneuvered so that his arm was free, and he hovered over her as she rolled onto her back. As he whispered his "Good morning", and Miel opened her eyes to find his face, she recoiled slightly. Only slightly, but it was enough for them to know. They had not ended their conversation properly, she had not forgotten, and as the early light grew, her mistrust was plain to see.

Vilkas felt as though he were watching thunderclouds gather. They were inside her somehow, under her skin. With his senses, he could tell when an actual storm was coming, and there was something about Bee that struck him with the same foreboding. He had felt it last night, when her anger flared upon seeing herself as Tullius's pawn, and the feeling had only mounted as they'd argued about the Embassy party. When Farkas left, she shed few tears, but it seemed as though she were caught in a torrential downpour, heavy and miserable. It had taken Vilkas some time to bring her out of it.

He thought back to other times he'd seen her angry or agitated. As a boy, he'd teased her many times to the point of crying, but he hadn't been a wolf then. There was that night at the Hunstman, when he'd snapped at her over the trick she'd played on Nazeem. If he'd sensed anything like this, he'd probably thought it was the wine and mead, the noise of the tavern, their own bad moods, or the actual weather. The same likely went for the Bannered Mare, the festival nights, even their birthday — drink and apprehension, with the excitement of growing interest and feeling, while last autumn rains, snow, and then spring showers waited above them.

On the field at Whiterun, during the siege, the storm had been there in full force, in her weapon strikes, in her Voice, in her fury; that had been just the Dragonborn lording over battle. But, the absurdity of the phrase, "just the Dragonborn", was not lost on Vilkas. Just the Dragonborn, writing them letters, sharing her bed, and saying she loved them. Just the Dragonborn, building a storm in the very heart she'd opened to them. Just the Dragonborn, regarding his brother with suspicion in the bright, sober light of the morning.

She probably had no idea what Vilkas saw, what his senses told him. This was just her nature, gods-favored and dragon-souled. If he took the cure, would he still be able to feel this part of her? Or would he be just another man?

"Where did you go last night, Farkas?" she asked softly.

Farkas laughed. "Nowhere. Just around. I went for a walk, like I said."

She was silent, disbelieving.

He stroked her hair and her cheek. "Come on, Bee," he said, gently cajoling. "Do you think I ran all the way from here to Northwatch, cleared out an entire fort of Thalmor, and was back before dawn? No." He chuckled. "It's impossible. I went to see if Kodlak was in our room, and then I went up by the lighthouse. Jumped in the water to help me think."

It was impossible, Vilkas knew. It would be foolish for even the both of them to try clearing that fort, crawling with so many Justiciar mages. On the other hand, it was not impossible for Farkas alone to go hunting in the hills between Ravenscar and Solitude, take down a Thalmor patrol, rinse himself in the sea, and return in his own skin before daybreak. Vilkas didn't know these details just yet, of course, but he and Farkas would discuss them once Miel holed up in Castle Dour for the morning.

Vilkas also knew that she would have called him a hypocrite, acting superior about trickery, when he had done his part as well. He'd sensed Farkas beginning to break and had given his brother the opening to leave, and he had kept Bee from chasing after his brother in the dark. Now, Vilkas read the uncertainty and hurt in her eyes as though they were meant for him, too.

"And what did you think?" she asked Farkas. "What did you decide?"

Farkas's smile faded, though he continued to stroke her hair. "What do you want, Bee? Do you want our help?"

"It's yours if you ask," Vilkas added.

She sighed. Shifting herself away from Farkas face, she sat up between them and crossed her arms. "I have the feeling it's mine even if I don't ask."

There was a quick, rhythmic rapping on the door, and Miel cursed. "The fitting. I forgot about the fitting," she muttered. She dug through the sheets for her tunic and hurriedly pulled it on. Vilkas sensed three people waiting in the hall.

"Just a moment, please!" she called out. "I'm with — guests." To them, she hissed, "Put something on. I'm going to make the bed." Her hands found a pair of breeches, and she threw them at Farkas's chest.

"Quaestor Miel?" said someone. "Are you decent?" It was Taarie, Solitude's foremost tailor.

"Just a moment!"

Vilkas went to where he had stacked his things and quietly took them behind the privacy screen. Farkas picked the belt and cuisses of his armor off the floor.

"We can still talk about this, Bee," he said.

"Not now, Farkas. Please?"

Taarie tried again, a bit impatiently. "You know, just your tunic will do. Preferably a clean one."

Vilkas snorted. When Farkas had at least the lower half of his armor on, Miel opened the door a crack.

Taarie shouldered her way inside. Heimvar, the blacksmith's apprentice, followed bearing a leather-bound trunk. Miel suppressed a noise of shock as an Imperial Legate brought up the rear.

"Good morning, sir. I'm sorry for oversleeping," she said with a stiff salute.

Vilkas and the officer nodded politely at one another over the screen. The latter smirked at seeing him and Farkas, who was still barefoot and bare-chested.

"Morning. At ease, Quaestor," he answered. "I know it was your first night off in weeks," he added, teasing. "Be glad it's me, though, and not the General."

Taarie pursed her lips and sniffed as she looked around. They had not made a mess, really; only the bed showed signs of use, and the chair and cups from last night were a little out of place. But, everyone knew the tailor was glad for any nits to pick. Heimvar set the trunk on a low table and opened it.

"Master Beirand sends his apologies for not coming himself," the apprentice said. "The Legion's more usual demands keep him busy."

Nervously, Miel gestured at the twins. "Legate Adventus Caesennius, meet Farkas and Vilkas of Jorrvaskr."

Adventus's expression changed to mild intrigue, but he said nothing. It occurred to Vilkas, this man could very well be the mastermind behind the Embassy operation. If so, he was probably the one who funneled the contract through Lord Harold and Safia.

"Companions!" Heimvar said, excited. "Hope the repair I did last time held up."

"You did good, Heimvar," Farkas assured him. He then nodded at the tailor. "Taarie."

Corpulus Vinius had offered the Dragonborn one of his best, most spacious rooms at no extra charge, but Vilkas suddenly felt crowded. He cleared his throat. "We'll take our leave," he offered.

"No, please, stay," Adventus said. "This won't take long. A few citizens' opinion on how it looks might be good. Try not to be biased, though."

Heimvar unbuckled the trunk. Miel and the twins gasped as he lifted out a cuirass of Imperial armor unlike anything they had ever seen. Most of it was of greenish black reptilian leather, with black and silver accents. Lightweight green glass plates folded over the shoulders instead of steel.

"Reminds me of newtscale," Farkas said excitedly. "Not much seen since the Third Era. Did you use guar hide?" He glanced into the trunk. "I prefer this leather skirt you've got to the plate tasset. Looks more like today's soldiers, and not as top-heavy. Better for movement, too. The glass — " he whistled " — really nice touch."

"Just so, sir!" Heimvar cried. "Are you a smith yourself?"

Taarie looked miffed. She'd been robbed of her grand introductory speech, Vilkas guessed.

Farkas shrugged. "Only an admirer."

Vilkas thought his brother was being humble. Farkas actually knew a thing or two about history, at least where weapons and armor were concerned. Studying and copying diagrams in the Gray-Manes' personal library had been one way to keep him still when they were younger. It was one of the few topics he could hold forth on with some authority.

His brief burst of enthusiasm now won him a smile of mild surprise from Bee, and Vilkas felt the storm begin to retreat.

She gingerly accepted the armor from Heimvar's outstretched hands. Vilkas disliked the very idea of dress armor, but as he took in her expression of awe, he wondered if she'd had anything so fine since leaving the temple. Eorlund Gray-Mane produced the best steel in Skyrim, but something had to be said for Beirand's leather workmanship, practiced as he was for the Legion.

As Miel turned the armor around to look at the back, Vilkas saw the Seal of Akatosh on the chest, just below the high collar, in black against the greenish scale. The whole armor piece was beautiful, understated and stylish. It alluded to her dragon blood while marking her as one of the Legion, likely just what Castle Dour wanted. 

She held it up in the sunlight and broke into a grin. "Can I fight in this?" she asked. The twins laughed.

"Absolutely not!" Taarie cried.

"Actually, yes," Heimvar said. "The General wanted it to afford actual protection, and Master Beirand thought it only right."

"You'll scratch it or ruin it," Taarie complained. "Try not to do anything unnecessary. Try not to move too vigorously — "

"Move vigorously? While fighting for my life?" Miel said drily. "Perish the thought, Madam Taarie."

Vilkas scowled at the reminder.

The apprentice smith helped Miel don the armor, first the cuirass, then a kilt of black leather strips with silver studs. It all seemed to fit her like a glove. "Did Beirand keep my measurements from Last Seed?" she asked.

"That's when the General ordered this, actually," Adventus said, "when he thought you would do more ceremonial things. You're not seriously thinking of taking this onto the field, are you?"

Taarie picked at invisible dust and fussed at the skirt.

"Of course not, sir. I was only thinking of — situations that might arise." Miel glanced down at the armor and sighed. "It is beautiful, though. Heimvar, please send my sincerest compliments to Beirand. I'm sure you ought to take some credit as well. It fits better than anything I've ever worn. I'm actually sorry it's only for dress."

The apprentice beamed with pride.

Taarie picked at the sleeve and then the hem of Miel's tunic. It was the Legion red she wore underneath her usual armor. "By Y'ffre, this is simply unsightly. We've prepared a black tunic for tomorrow evening," the tailor muttered, "once you've been washed yourself."

Miel glanced wryly at the twins.

Heimvar then handed her the matching boots and bracers — the same scale leather trimmed with black, and glass for the guards and greaves. "These are amazing," she marveled. Once she had them on, she tried a few movements with an imagined sword and a bit of footwork, crossing the room. "I can't believe how light they are."

Farkas took advantage of an outstretched hand and led her through a brief dance. Her cheeks warmed as she fought a smile, and then she stepped back after a few turns.

"Wonderful," Adventus said. "It has quite the effect we want."

Taarie grumbled about dirt on Farkas's armor coming off.

Miel grasped uncomfortably at her neck. "Why is the collar so high?"

The tailor sighed. "I was against it; it practically swallows you, and you're so small already. Another concession on the part of style, if you ask me."

"Recall your history," the Legate said sharply. "Tiber Septim, Cuhlecain, and the nightblade. Beirand is crafting gorgets for your regular armor as we speak."

Miel blanched, and Vilkas felt his blood rising at the implication.

"Isn't there a helmet?" she asked.

Heimvar shook his head. "With dress armor, any helmet is usually held under the arm, and I believe the General wants your hands free."

Taarie cleared her throat. "I have something else more suited for the evening." She glided forth and opened a smaller box lined with velvet, revealing a jade circlet set with black onyxes.

"No," Miel whispered. "Sir, I don't want to think how many months' salary the armor alone cost. Tullius should have spent the money on supplies, for the troops."

"Believe me, the Blue Palace simply takes it back in taxes, then donates it back to the Legion," Taarie said crisply. "And, this piece is only on loan." She disgustedly swept Miel's hair back and set the circlet atop her head.

The tailor stepped away, and Adventus offered Miel his own polished sword to see her reflection. As she held up the blade, the effect was immediate and complete. Vilkas felt the hairs on his arms stand up as she slowly raised her chin, to balance the weight of the green stone crown. Her heart began to race, her mouth twitched in surprise, and there was a glimmer of superiority and satisfaction in her eyes; something about this was in her nature, too. He thought back to the conversation with Ysolda and the barmaid, at Balgruuf's feast, and knew Miel could have everything — if she wanted it.

"Well?" Miel asked. She was looking at them.

"Like a warrior-queen," Farkas said, grinning.

"A god-queen." Vilkas had been silent until now. "You're going to piss the Thalmor off for sure."

* * *

  
Miel shed the armor again so that Heimvar and Taarie could take it back for buffing and final, minor adjustments. There was no more time to talk; Adventus waited with the twins outside the room for her to get in regular uniform, so that the soldiers could head up to Castle Dour together.

"I don't suppose there's a third brother you could introduce me to," the Legate asked jokingly. "A sister's fine, too."

Farkas laughed good-naturedly; Vilkas only grunted.

When Bee emerged from the room, Farkas could tell her mood had returned, and his guilt returned with it. She looked at him and his brother blankly before giving them each a chaste kiss on the cheek, and he was sure it wasn't just because Adventus was there. Farkas invited her to lunch with them at the Bards College, and all he got was an, "I'll see," over her shoulder as she left. He had a strong feeling, like a bad, bad rain was coming, even though the rest of his senses told him they were in for a balmy spring day.

Kodlak had gone to the College for an early start with the books, so the twins had their room to talk privately. Farkas filled Vilkas in on where he had been and what he had done near Ravenscar Hollow. They made new plans before separating, Vilkas to consult Kodlak in the library, and Farkas to settle with Safia and get things in order for the job.

He would have to rest that night, so Vilkas would be the one to head out and thin the Thalmor's numbers, but that meant Farkas was the one who had to keep Bee preoccupied if she came looking for them. He wasn't sure she wanted to be alone with him, or around him at all. He wasn't sure it was even a good idea.

The Harbinger had told everyone to save their tears for when he was gone, but the Companions had begun to grieve the loss all the same. And, of all the Circle, Farkas was the one whose feelings were the keenest. He had thus come to Solitude hoping for work, distraction, and comfort — only to learn that Bee could be taken away from them, too. As she'd argued for them to butt out of this Thalmor business, Farkas had felt like a cornered animal.

He'd snapped. He didn't care that she said he hadn't hurt her; the fact that he'd grabbed her at all that way shocked them both. Then, he'd walked out when she'd clearly wanted him to stay. Farkas was certain he'd left bruises he couldn't see, and he'd made it worse by coming back with lies.

He'd gone out and hunted, and it hadn't felt like his usual hunts. It hadn't been a fun, moonlit chase with the pack to take down a feast. It hadn't been tracking and killing escaped criminals, or clearing caves, ruins, or bandit camps no one would check afterward. It had been angry and personal, hunting those who would prey on Miel.

He felt the beast inside him resting, pleased, possibly even blessed with what it had accomplished. But, he, Farkas, not the beast, was the one who'd come back to his love with kissing and caressing, and lied to her face about where he'd been, what he'd done, and what he was.

Farkas realized with a pang that last night had been the very first fight with Bee; the bubble of playful warmth and lovemaking had finally burst.

He had never raised a hand against a lover in an argument before, but the last time he had ever loved someone this much was before he'd taken the blood. Fighting with Bee had made him angry enough, apparently, to throw years of learning to curb his beastly urges out the window. If this was their first fight, how much worse would it be at their next? If Vilkas hadn't sent him out, if he hadn't lit upon the idea of hunting Thalmor, if it had been just them in a room with nowhere else to go — he knew Bee was fully capable of blasting him to pieces if she had to, but she made herself so, so vulnerable when they were together. He had no idea what might happen, and it made him afraid.

After visiting the Red Wave and dropping some things off in their room at the Skeever, Farkas stopped by the market to pick up their lunch, a simple picnic bundle and a bottle of light wine. On his way to the College, he saw Miel heading there herself, coming down the ramp from Castle Dour. She had her nose in a book, and her left hand was clenching and unclenching at a glowing violet swirl in the air. It looked like she was trying a new spell.

He caught up to her and walked a few silent paces beside her for a while. She was so intent on understanding the spell that she didn't notice he was there.

"Hey," he said gently.

She startled, and in the jolt, the spell discharged. Farkas felt as though the wind were blowing in two opposite directions.

"Get behind me!" she yelled.

Barrelling down the street toward them was a frost atronach. Farkas dropped the market bundle and reached for his sword, but Miel stepped in front of him. She placed one hand on his chest and raised the other toward the atronach.

It stopped just short of her palm and stared down at the both of them. Waves of cold rolled off it as it seemed to breathe, awaiting her command. Did atronachs breathe? Farkas wasn't sure. Whenever he'd seen atronachs this close before, they'd been defending their warlock masters and trying to pound him into the dirt.

Slowly, Bee lowered her hands. "All right. They know you're with me. I think."

A passing guard tutted. "Watch the magic, soldier!"

Farkas realized he'd been holding his breath and gasped for air. It was cold air. It prickled the lungs.

"Ugh." Bee squatted to pick up her book and dust it off. "Great. Now that they're here, I don't actually know how to make them go back. Sorry, friend," she said to the daedra. "Hope you don't mind following me for a bit."

"Do — do they talk back?" Farkas picked up the bundle of food. Thankfully, it was wrapped up tight, and there wasn't anything inside that wouldn't survive a little drop.

"I don't know if they understand me half the time. They can always tell who my enemies are. But, I can't tell you how many times I've been stuck in some hall or tunnel because an atronach just wouldn't get out of the way."

Farkas chuckled nervously, mainly because he didn't know how else to react. She had summoned out of instinct, for protection. He knew it might have happened if anyone had startled her like that, but he couldn't help wondering if she wanted protection from him, specifically. If she hadn't put herself between him and the daedra right then, would it have tried to stick its pointed limb in his chest?

Miel inspected him and saw that he still had the wine clenched in his left hand. She laughed. "You dropped the food, but you saved the wine? Great instincts, Farkas."

He grimaced. "The food was in my sword hand!"

It was great to see her smile, though, a moment before they both remembered how they'd left things that morning. They continued toward the College in silence, the atronach stomping behind them every few paces, until it disappeared with a loud crack.

They ate bread, fruit, and slices of ham and cheese in the College amphitheater, overlooking the sea. Vilkas, Kodlak, and two of the deans, historian Giraud Gemane and lutenist Inge Six Fingers, joined them with more food from the bards' kitchen. The three elders attempted to engage the Dragonborn, but she kept her replies brief, though polite. Eventually, they spoke amongst themselves about history and songs and left the three younger fighters to their silence.

"Sorry," Miel said to the twins after a while. "Adventus had these new spells for me to learn, and I had to handle a mountain of paperwork on Rikke's behalf, too. It's been a while since I've been desk-bound. I don't envy Kodlak his project. His eyesight must be amazing at his age," she added wryly.

Farkas laughed weakly. Vilkas said nothing.

"Don't be sorry," Farkas then said. "I'm the one who should be sorry." He reached for her hand, then thought better of it and didn't touch her at all.

Bee stared blankly at him for a moment, then picked at her fruit. Vilkas suggested they go over to the wall, away from the rest of the group, and the three of them quietly watched the bay for a while. A ship passed from underneath them toward the Sea of Ghosts, and seagulls squawked overhead.

The first shadow of wings on the battlement startled her. It was only a seagull, but Farkas realized she had been expecting other, larger wings, and he ached at these signs of panic. He'd seen them before, in soldiers who had been in the Great War, or older Companions who had been through horrible things. He wanted to pat her on the back, soothe her, and remind her she was here with them now, but that reminder didn't seem welcome, either.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and sad.

"Last night was our first fight, wasn't it?"

Farkas's heart broke a little. So, she knew it, too.

"Wasn't even a good first fight," she continued, with a hollow laugh. "It should've been some silly misunderstanding, a forgotten date, some stupid lie." Over her head, Vilkas shot him a warning look. "Our first fight is about whether we should be risking our lives. For each other."

"It's not exactly a bad first fight, when you put it that way," Farkas offered.

Miel sighed and continued to watch the sea. Farkas had the feeling that if she stared at it harder, it would whip itself into a frenzy and capsize half the ships.

"What do you want us to do?" Vilkas asked. "We can't stop you from doing your job. You can't stop us from trying to help you. We've already told Safia we're doing it."

She looked at Vilkas sharply then. "What about the money? I got one of Adventus's staff talking this morning. Lord Harold Stone-Shoulders is all of five years old and has no nieces to speak of. I think his family lends Castle Dour its name and seal for things like this."

Vilkas growled. "I thought so. But, as Farkas said last night, it doesn't matter."

"Safia can't believe her luck, really," Farkas added. "She's getting help from two Companions for free."

"But — "

"And, we won't be going as Companions," he added. "I borrowed us some spare armor from Ahtar. We'll just be a little hunting party, making camp near the coast tomorrow night."

Vilkas bit his cheek. "Kodlak's not happy with Companions being lured here like this. It makes us wonder how many other contracts have been Imperial or Stormcloak requests in disguise. We can't afford to check our clients' backgrounds so extensively before accepting jobs, especially not now, but it troubles him. He wanted to leave Solitude immediately. I convinced him to stay and not waste the chance to do his research." He hesitated. "I may have also told him it's for you."

Bee narrowed her eyes and hissed. "Vilkas, this information — "

"We can trust Kodlak," Farkas said. "Kodlak is good at keeping secrets." 

She sighed. Still, Farkas sensed that this, she could believe.

She sank to the ground and sat with her arms on her knees. Farkas saw the violet swirl in her left hand again and braced himself for the return of her icy guardian. This time, however, she conjured a ghostly sword, coated with tongues of blue fire. The twins watched as she flicked her wrist to make the sword disappear, then summoned it again. She did this several more times before closing her eyes and resting her head against the wall.

"One of the spells you were studying today?" Farkas ventured.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Found a spellsword in the barracks who had the books on her. We thought it would be good to have a sword I wouldn't need to surrender at the door. It's the same spell some of the Thalmor fighters use, actually." Farkas knew this from recent experience but said nothing. "I just have to hope I have enough time and magicka to conjure it before they do anything to me."

Bee glanced up at the sun to check its position. Then, she sighed and patted the cobblestones. Farkas immediately sat, and Vilkas followed.

"I don't like your plan, but I don't have to," she said. "You don't have to like what I'm doing, either. I don't want to think about this anymore. I'm going to come back from that party, one way or another." Her expression softened. "But, if I don't come back right away, or if this is the last night we have before the Thalmor and the dragons turn it all to shit, I'd like to have a good one. Can we try to make it a good one?"

"Of course, Bee."

"Anything, love. Only — " Vilkas winced. "I need to take care of some things tonight, for the job. I might not be back till late. Will you be all right with just Farkas for a while?"

Her wariness then told Farkas her trust was truly cracked. "I'm sorry, Bee," he said. "I have no excuse for the way I was, but it won't happen again." He hoped. "Let me make it up to you. I'll apologize as many times as it takes. We can do anything you want. I'm at your mercy here."

She took a breath, but her face grew resolved. "I could use some help shopping," she then said. "I want to put together a little package for the girls, and you know what they like."

"Sure! Shopping. I can help you with that." If he sounded too eager, he didn't care. He'd wait on her hand and foot if that would fix things.

Miel glanced up at the sun again. "Ugh. All right. I'll see you later. I need to get back to Castle Dour and let my lunch settle, before I teach that prick from the Skeever a lesson."

Vilkas smirked. "Can we come and watch?"

* * *

  
The public was allowed to pass through the Castle Dour courtyard to go to the Temple of the Divines. If they stopped to observe the soldiers' training, the guards didn't mind, as long as they weren't a nuisance. Kodlak, curious about Miel's abilities, went with the twins.

Miel was standing near the archery targets and talking with a group of female soldiers. Though the Companions stood some distance away, they could hear what they were discussing. Apparently, Miel had not been the only recipient of unwanted attention from this Tertius Galenus. In fact, many of the soldiers in the yard were not there for training at all, but to see scores settled on their behalf.

It appeared that Tertius was new to Skyrim. He was among reinforcements that had been shipped in for the spring and was still awaiting assignment. And, though rough portraits of the Dragonborn, to her embarrassment, were circulated by a growing number of admirers among the common folk, the quality of the likenesses varied. As the younger soldier stumbled into the yard, however, Vilkas could tell from his face that he definitely knew who she was now.

"Ten septims says he tries to get out of it," Farkas whispered.

"I'm not taking that bet," Vilkas muttered. "Just look at him. His breeches must be soiled ten times over."

Captain Aldis called everyone to order. The Empire might be ruled from Cyrodiil, but the man who saw to the grunts' day-to-day at Castle Dour was a Nord, and Vilkas appreciated this. The Legion probably had all sorts of rules and punishments about disrespecting comrades and officers, but Aldis wasn't above letting people settle their disputes the old-fashioned way, under controlled circumstances.

"All right," he bellowed. "Unarmed combat today. The Dragonborn has asked to join us during her business here in Solitude, because everybody trains, no matter how strong and skilled you become. I'm granting her pick of sparring partner. There will be no magic, no Shouts, no weapons — only the honor of seeing your ass handed back to you by a Dragon of the North."

Laughter, cheering, and taunts met this last remark, and some soldiers even began to raise their hands. Miel took advantage of the noise to say something to Aldis.

"Tertius Galenus!" the Captain barked. "It seems today, the honor is yours!"

To his credit, Tertius stepped forward without needing to be pushed, though he looked as though he were marching to his death.

"Dragonborn — Quaestor — " he began, "I would like to apologize for my remarks to you last night. It was unbecoming conduct on my part. I was crude and disrespectful. If I had known who you were, I would never — "

Miel had looked amused and accepting, up to this point. Now, her eyes grew flinty. Her voice was level, chilling. "You would never?" she began. "Must a woman be noteworthy to merit the most basic respect from you?"

"No, I didn't mean — "

"What does she need, Tertius? Power? Strength? A title, perhaps. A name. Family or father worth mentioning. My father might be nobody to you, but I bet he's worth more than all the men in your bloody family put together."

"Please — "

"Shor's bones, lad," Kodlak whispered with a chuckle, "look at those eyes. Pray you never make her angry."

Vilkas said nothing. He noted Miel's posture, however. There was the air of pride bordering on arrogance that so many soldiers had when they swaggered about; he only ever saw her hold herself that way when she was with her comrades, and it was probably something she'd learned in the years before she took her first dragon soul. But, the stormcloud, crackling with thunder, was also there.

He wondered how much of her anger was really meant for Tertius, how much was left over from arguing with the twins, and how much was simply her frustration at being in a mortal body, saddled with all of Skyrim's cares. He started to feel concerned for Tertius.

"I don't even need to defend my honor to you," Miel was saying. "I would have accepted your apology and let you back down easily. But, it seems to me that you owe a lot of apologies around here — "

"And money!" some soldier called.

" — and, unfortunately, not everyone here has the strength to extract one from you with the proper respect. It's for them we're here now."

She took her stance. Again to his credit, Tertius followed.

Aldis clapped an encouraging hand on the young man's shoulder. "Consider, milites," the Captain said to everyone, "if you can't face the Dragonborn with your all, then the Stormcloaks are braver than you still."

He gave the signal. Miel threw the first few punches, just some light taps to get things started. Farkas and Kodlak began discussing her technique, and it set Vilkas on edge. It occurred to him that Miel was practicing hand-to-hand combat to prepare for a situation without her sword or her magic, and he didn't need the reminder. But, the anger in her eyes soon distilled into a calm focus, as though she saw Tertius as nothing more than a living practice dummy, and she was oblivious to the excited onlookers' shouts.

Tertius was the more practiced boxer. As soon as he realized that being Dragonborn did not, in fact, increase Miel's brute strength all that much, he gained more confidence. When his blows landed, they were painful to watch and to hear. Kodlak laid a warning hand on Farkas's shoulder when she was first knocked to the ground, and one on Vilkas when the mingled smells of human and dragon blood began to reach them.

But, Bee was lighter, faster, and better at predicting Tertius's movements than he was at hers. What she lacked in power, she made up for in quantity and precision. It didn't help Tertius that she seemed to recover quickly, even without magic or alchemy, and her stamina seemed endless.

"Pesky little thing, isn't she?" Kodlak said.

It was lovely to behold, but Vilkas's concerns were not all assuaged. On one hand, it was good to be reminded that she could handle bigger, stronger opponents, even with the handicaps set for this ostensible training session. On the other hand, she would need much more than speed and dexterity in a fight against a werewolf, or multiple Thalmor agents.

When Tertius finally yielded, he was sapped. Miel had bruises and a few cuts, but he was black and blue, with a few cracked ribs and a broken nose, and he could barely stand. He accepted Miel's hand and shook it.

"Your family taught you to fight with honor; I can say that much," she said. "Learn to treat people with it the rest of the time, and perhaps your time in Skyrim will be easier."

"Thank you, Quaestor," Tertius mumbled. A medic approached with potions, and Miel actually smiled, tapping the bottom of her bottle against the other soldier's before drinking.

"And for gods' sake, pay back that man's money."

There were cheers, yet much of the crowd was confused. Farkas grumbled, expecting Tertius's total humiliation. Vilkas, however, understood. It had been one thing for Bee to exult in her power at Whiterun, to strike fear into the hearts of Stormcloaks with insults and Shouting, but she and Tertius were supposed to be on the same side. The compliment to his family, the gentle chiding, even the mild flirtation with the potions — she needed the other soldiers to see her as a comrade, not as a bully. What she'd done to Tertius was no different from when any of the Circle took a new blood into the yard for a harsh lesson. In five years, the younger soldier would invite her to his own wedding.

Kodlak clucked. "Grace in combat and in victory. I tell you, lads, if I were a younger man — " The Harbinger chuckled at the idea, and Farkas grinned and shook his head. Vilkas sighed.

Across the yard, he watched Miel licking at the blood on her lower lip, until the potion finished its work and the cut was gone. He couldn't help wondering how it tasted, but perhaps it would be disaster if he ever found out.

Tertius had sunk onto a low bench while the medic attended to him. Some of the female soldiers were congratulating Miel, and Aldis was bellowing for everyone else to partner up and train, but she took a moment to wave at the Companions and smile. Her anger seemed completely gone. Farkas and Kodlak waved back, and Vilkas simply nodded.

"You know her, Companion?" asked a guard at his elbow.

"Since we were kids," Farkas replied proudly. "She's our girl."

"A Whiterun girl," Vilkas added hastily. But, underneath his brooding and concern, he couldn't help having a little bloom of pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Possibly unhealthy relationship dynamics; allusions to PTSD.  
> —
> 
> When I first imagined that Tullius wanted Miel to tour Skyrim's holds, way back in the single-digit chapters, I essentially thought of how Captain America was first treated in The First Avenger (2011): as a costumed mascot. The dress armor here is the Legion's (and my) idea of a superhero outfit for the Dragonborn. Of course, for all the effort gone into designing and making the armor, it's not something she would wear outside of formal/ceremonial events. These are the references I was using:
> 
> In the first two images, we have the Imperial newtscale and Imperial silver armors from Morrowind. For Miel's dress armor, I imagined something similar to the torso of the newtscale, with glass plates (like the wings of the glass shield pictured here) instead of steel. And, instead of individual scale shapes cut out of leather, it would have panels of reptilian leather and solid black leather for a more streamlined look, closer to how the silver and the "modern" Imperial armor torsos look.
> 
> Instead of the newtscale piece's steel tasset and other crotch bits, it would have a skirt/kilt similar to the one on the silver armor set, and perhaps in larger, layered strips as Hadvar and Tullius are wearing. The boots and bracers would be similar to the modern ones the Solitude guard has on, in black/reptilian leather, and again with glass instead of steel. I imagine the entire set would be as breathable as Hadvar's look, not as covered up as the women on the left.
> 
> Note the red tunics underneath Hadvar and Tullius's armor, particularly how the sleeves and hem extend past the armor. Taarie would have Miel wear a black tunic with silver trims, probably similar to the way Tullius's tunic is designed.
> 
> Tullius's armor and the Imperial silver armor emulate Roman officers' dress armors. The placement of the Seal of Akatosh on Tullius's cuirass is where it would be on Miel's.
> 
> All of the images here were pulled from the UESP wiki, except for the crocodile leather image, which is a snip from [Shutterstock](https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/leather-texture-black-backgroundcrocodile-53658646). I modified the circlet image in GIMP to darken the stones, because there is no jade and onyx circlet asset in Skyrim.
> 
> Another dress armor image I kept looking at, more for the "scary awesome god-king" inspiration than the actual look, was the [Legends card art for Tiber Septim](https://en.uesp.net/wiki/File:LG-cardart-A_New_Era.png) himself.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long one, and everything's about to go to shit for our characters. Warnings at the end. Comments appreciated!

Pine. Dirt.

"You're supposed to be smart! How could you let one go?"

Seawater. Blood.

"He was as good as done, and I had to mind the time, all right? There was an atronach; it slowed me down. And I couldn't — I couldn't eat. Sorry."

Dog. Potion.

"Can we deal with this after I'm properly clean? I only came in here for a shirt."

"The laundry's in our room. Quiet! Quiet."

Hands, arms. Vilkas? Farkas.

"I'm here. We're both here. Shh, it's all right. Go back to sleep, Bee."

* * *

  
A bath. He needed a proper bath. Vilkas was dead tired, but there was no way he was getting into that bed before scrubbing himself clean. Leaving Farkas with Miel again, he quietly went to the other room to find a spare shirt and some trousers.

Kodlak was not there. That was not unusual; none of the Circle slept very well. Vilkas had not seen him in the dining area when he staggered through the Skeever's back door, however. Perhaps the old man was enjoying a nighttime stroll through Solitude, beneath the stars. It had been a nice night, despite the bloody, botched work.

He had been seen. In beast form, by a Thalmor soldier who had been sure to bleed out before Vilkas reached the Solitude outskirts, but still. Kodlak would want them to leave Haafingar as soon as possible. Vilkas might even need to go into hiding. At least once, everyone in the Circle had to disappear for a while, until the panic over a werewolf sighting died down. He had been sighted in the worst of Skyrim's holds for it.

The trouble was that Vilkas could not, would not leave.

He found the pile of clean clothes and pulled out the first shirt he saw; never mind for now that it was his brother's. Bath first, to scrub off what still clung to his skin after splashing himself in Clearpine Pond. He did not need to worry about Kodlak just yet.

He was wrong. As he crept through the inn's dimly lit cellar, he saw the Harbinger there, blocking the shortcut passage between the inn and the public baths. Vilkas's heart sank.

"Where have you been, lad?"

"Hunting." There was no point in lying. The most Vilkas could do to curb the older man's wrath now would be to say as little as possible.

"You know we don't do that here. Not in Haafingar. Too many towers — "

"Too many eyes and ears. Yes, I know."

"Then, why did you go?"

Vilkas fought his exhaustion to stay upright. He was so tired. But, Kodlak had no sympathy at the moment, and Vilkas knew he deserved the Harbinger's ire.

"I had to."

"Had to? Here in Haafingar? Is it really so hard for you to control your urges after three years, lad?" Kodlak asked sternly. "I thought you'd at least have the sense to cross into Hjaalmarch. Nobody sees you in the swamp!"

"How did you know I was seen?"

Kodlak's eyes flashed, and Vilkas immediately felt his mistake. Fatigue made it hard to plan his words. He had truly strung himself up now.

"It was rhetorical, lad," Kodlak said coldly. "Who saw you?"

"A soldier."

Kodlak's fury was radiant, and Vilkas dropped his eyes. He felt like a boy again. Ysmir's beard, he just wanted a bath, then to crawl into bed next to Bee.

"Where?"

"Between Steepfall and Rimerock." He had just had this conversation with Farkas. If only Kodlak knew and let him go. "He was already done for when I felt my skin returning, Kodlak. Even if I could have finished him off, I sensed others coming. I had to make a choice. I didn't want to risk even more of them seeing me."

Kodlak looked as though he would strike him down. "If one sees you, they all see you," he hissed. "If he has lived long enough to report the incident, then tonight, they'll have hounds. Silver. Clairvoyance, too; I'm sure the mages of Northwatch can manage it. And, after they're through with you, they will be at the doors of Jorrvaskr soon enough. You know what this means now, what we have to do."

Vilkas shook his head. "We can't. I can't leave. Not yet, sir. I need to stay here," he pleaded. "You know, Harbinger; you know why I was there and not in the swamp. You know the reason I took the risk."

"I do know the reason. She is upstairs, deep in the sleep of the just, which is more than any of us have had in years. But, I'll say nothing against her. I don't believe she wanted you to be so foolish for her sake."

Kodlak sighed and closed his eyes. "Tell me plain, son, though I know the answer. What were you hunting that was worth risking all our hides?"

Vilkas swallowed. This was it. "A Northwatch patrol. Farkas and I meant to thin their numbers, ahead of this evening. We were never supposed to be seen. It's supposed to look like the work of beasts."

The lines in Kodlak's face deepened. "It is the work of beasts. You involved your brother in this?"

"He had the idea first. He hunted near Shadowgreen the other night." Vilkas hated how childish it sounded — as though he meant to drag Farkas down with him, into the grave he kept digging with his own confession.

Kodlak turned his face away in deep disappointment. "So, you and your brother exposed yourselves and us all on purpose, hunting an enemy that would hunt us down in turn, for reasons personal and selfish."

"Selfish?" Vilkas dropped his things. "How is keeping her safe selfish? She's a target to them. They know how much Skyrim needs her. And, you allowed us to take this job because it was a special case."

Kodlak raised a hand to remind him about his voice. They were alone, but the kitchen staff would be preparing breakfast soon; they would visit the cellar at any moment.

"I should not have allowed it. You and your brother are doing this because of your own needs, not Skyrim's," he said quietly, stepping toward Vilkas. "It is noble to guard the Dragonborn, yes, and that does make it a special case. But, your true intentions muddle the whole affair."

Another sigh. "The more I have thought about this, Vilkas, the more distasteful I find it. The idea of special cases, of allowing Companions to drop our name to take jobs, clients, and money we do not normally take, and then allowing them back to Jorrvaskr as though everything is still well and good — it has never sat well with me."

Vilkas shook his head. Of all times, why did the old man need to put his foot down now? "We are not getting paid for this, remember? And, you know we would not be the first Companions to do something off the books. Everyone has done it at one point or another."

The Harbinger closed his eyes for a moment. "That is true. But, more often than not, it reeks of dishonor. The more any one of us does it, the more we treat our name like an old shirt we wear whenever it suits. Do you know any of our number who has done this and kept the name of Companion for long? We are trying to be better than our predecessors, lad."

Vilkas struggled not to hit something. The mere mention of losing his place, his identity, was a threat. "You cannot tell me that doing whatever I can to help her is dishonorable."

Again, Kodlak shook his head. "We will only talk in circles this way." He laid both hands on Vilkas's shoulders. "We can talk more at Jorrvaskr. The safest thing to do is to leave Haafingar now, before a search comes to Solitude."

Vilkas tried to brush him off, but Kodlak's grip was still strong. "The witness could have died without saying anything," Vilkas persisted. "We don't know that we have to leave."

"Are you willing to take that risk, and to risk the Circle, the company, our family along with it?" Kodlak warned. "If you insist on carrying out what your own carelessness has made a suicide mission, Vilkas, I cannot stop you — nor can I stop your brother. But, you had better come out of this alive, with no witnesses, or you will bring Oblivion itself to our doors."

Vilkas jerked away from the older man, picked up his things, and pushed past toward the baths.

"Go. Try and wash yourself," Kodlak said after him. "I'm going to see if your brother will listen to sense."

* * *

  
Morning. Wooden wheels clattered by on the cobblestones, as traders made their way to the market to set up for the day. Miel glimpsed the faint yellow glow of the curtains over the windows before closing her eyes again in protest. She stretched. Her fingertips brushed cool, bare skin beside her.

Vilkas was there, asleep, with his back to her. Not yet out of the dream fog herself, she wriggled closer to embrace him from behind, taking small delight in the fact that her body couldn't quite cover him. Nor could her arm reach all the way across his chest. Miel stuck her nose into his hair, at the base of his skull.

It was damp. He smelled of the herbs they used in the water at the baths. She breathed them in with his own scent. It was strange, actually. She had expected to smell something else, though she wasn't sure what anymore.

After being gone all night, Vilkas had bathed instead of simply dropping into bed like anyone else might have done — like she herself had done many times, on the field. Was he that fussy at Jorrvaskr, too, or was it simply for her benefit while they were together? She laughed quietly to herself.

"Careful," Farkas said. "He got back just an hour or so ago. He's dead tired. Let him sleep."

Lifting her head, Miel saw Farkas sitting in a chair, with his feet up on the opposite corner of the bed. He was scratching at something in his journal, a stub of coal in his right hand. The light from outside shone on his beard, thicker and untrimmed in the few days since he'd come to Solitude. It suited him. 

He got up and onto the bed, where he sat at the head, against the wall. Miel pushed under his arm and set herself between his legs, to lean against his bare chest and look at his work.

"Nosy," he said.

"I want to see."

He laughed. "Sounded just like when you were little just now. I couldn't say no to you then, either."

"You could, too. You never let me be on the crew when you played pirates."

"We needed a damsel, or a monster."

"Which one am I now?"

He nipped at her ear and held the little book farther away, making room for her.

The page held a rough sketch of Kodlak, wearing a stern, angry expression. Miel couldn't help flinching at his narrowed eyes.

"Oh no," she teased. "What did you do?"

Farkas abruptly turned the page and began something fresh, resting the journal on their knees. "It's not important."

She watched him doodle. It occurred to Miel that the past few days at the Winking Skeever had been a taste of the normalcy her family had enjoyed when she was younger, before she was taken to the temple, and when Agda had been alive.

Agda rose early to prepare breakfast for the whole inn, Guillame woke not much later, and he would fetch Miel from her little room to eat with him at the bar — their place of honor over a court of travelers, mercenaries, soldiers, hungover locals, and sometimes even carnival folk. He would set her at a lesson — reading, or numbers — and go over it with her briefly before kissing her and her mother goodbye.

Then, he would head off to the Legion's headquarters in Camlorn proper, where he trained fresh recruits and manned a desk. Agda would check her work as soon as most patrons had been served, then give her some chores. Afterward, Miel was free to play with the other village children until she saw Guillaume coming up the road again, and they'd go inside for dinner, stories, and songs.

It had been a simple, honest life, where dragons were only legends, her foremost concern was whether Henri Boucher liked her more than Anna LeClerc, and no one was in danger of violent injury or death.

Would she have something like normalcy when the war was over, if the dragons were no longer a threat? A posting at the garrison in Whiterun would be just the thing, or perhaps she'd actually take up the offer of a spot among the Companions. Then, every day, she'd have this — Vilkas dozing, Farkas drawing in the early light, and perhaps the first sounds of the children stirring in the room below — they would need a bigger house first, she realized. That would be something. But, Miel stopped herself from thinking further of such things. It was too much to want.

Watching another knotwork wolf take shape under Farkas's stub of coal, she vaguely remembered something. She gently tapped his arm. "I had an odd dream," she said. "I think you two were arguing."

"Hm. What about?"

"I don't know. Something about one of you not being hungry? Like you couldn't eat? I can't remember."

He laughed. "Definitely a dream, love. We need breakfast." He drew his mouth to her ear. "I'll promote you to cabin girl if you run down and get us something."

"There were smells," she persisted, though she laughed. "I think I dreamt the same smells the other night, too. Is that even possible? Dreaming smells?"

"Hm." His drawing hand paused, then continued slowly. "Well, we're in the same row as the baths, and Angelline's Aromatics. Wouldn't be surprised if the wind blew some aromas this way every now and then."

That made sense. Still, something nagged at her. The strokes on the page grew less directed.

"Maybe it's potion things," Farkas suggested, "Angelline getting an early start on her brews."

That also made sense. Miel began to pick sleep out of her eyes and felt her questions retreat. "I think you're right. I did smell healing potion, I think."

Abruptly, he shut the journal and tossed it onto a low table. "Right. Say, what about that breakfast? I can be the one to run down and see what Corpulus has ready, then have him send something up."

She shook her head. She was fully awake now, on the day of the party, and the night ahead of them loomed large in her mind. Her life was far from normal still.

Farkas, as if sensing her mood change, sighed and shifted, gently turning her head. He kissed her nose, then her mouth. Miel ran a hand through the coarse hair on his cheek, her little finger running just under his jaw, and he quickly caught her thumb with his teeth. That got a laugh out of her, and she relaxed somewhat.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too."

"I hope none of us get killed or maimed or kidnapped tonight."

Farkas let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "Could have left that unsaid. Great for the mood, Bee."

They kissed for a bit, Miel tasting the strong tea he must have had before she woke, but neither of them felt up to anything more.

"What's our plan, then?" she asked. "I have one last briefing later this morning, and then Tullius is letting me have the afternoon before Heimvar and Taarie come back with my armor. Will I see you before you leave for Steepfall?"

Farkas frowned. "We're leaving as soon as Vilkas is up again," he said. "Safia wants us in place by the afternoon. With — everything going on, the Thalmor patrols might be more thorough, so we need to be sure of the spot Vilkas picked out yesterday."

"Is that where he was?" she asked. "Why didn't he just stay there, save himself the trip?"

"I wanted to see you," Vilkas said, "before Tullius marches you over for the sacrifice." He was awake.

Miel heard the edge in his voice but bit her own tongue. It wasn't time for another fight. She drew her knees to her chest. Vilkas simply stared up at the ceiling, and the three of them were silent for a while.

"Why don't we make a plan for afterward?" she then offered. "It'll give us something to look forward to." Something to stay alive for.

Farkas ran a hand over his face, down through his beard. Vilkas, too, had let the razor lie and looked scruffier than usual. It occurred to Miel then that it wasn't simply for lack of grooming. They meant to disguise their faces as much as possible, not only with a bit of paint.

"We won't be here afterward," Farkas said quietly. "We're all leaving Solitude today. There can't be a whiff of any of us Companions around this. If nothing happens to you, or if things get hairy tonight — either way, we need to get out of Haafingar as soon as we're done."

"What about Kodlak's research?" she asked, failing to hide her own disappointment.

Vilkas and Farkas traded looks. If the three of them ever lived together, Miel would get tired of that fast, she thought.

"Kodlak is already on the road back to Whiterun. We had words early this morning," Farkas said. That explained the tea. "The more time we've spent on this — job, the more unhappy he is about it. Not about you, of course." He squeezed Miel round her middle. "It's the situation. You're a special case, but, slippery slope and all that."

"Why didn't you leave with him, then? Drop the business and go."

"And leave you here to wake up by yourself, without even a kiss goodbye? Not a chance."

Vilkas sighed. "We started something. Now, we have to finish it," he said.  
  
Miel said nothing. She was acutely aware now of how little time they had. Vilkas was awake, and Castle Dour awaited. "That's it, then? Breakfast, and then see you when next we meet?"

Farkas dug his forehead between her shoulders. "Let's make a plan, like you said. Where is next?"

"Northwatch Keep?" she said drily. Vilkas didn't find it funny, obviously. "Sorry. Probably somewhere in the Rift, if you two happen to come by the front, which isn't likely. Or else, back in Whiterun, where we belong."

"We'll probably be in Falkreath, the Reach, or Eastmarch," Vilkas said. "We'll need to lie low for a while, after tonight."

"Eastmarch isn't far from the front," Farkas said. "It's not a bad idea. Camping. Hot springs," he added suggestively. Miel flushed.

"Farkas," Vilkas warned.

"What's wrong?" Miel asked.

"No." Vilkas sat up so that they could face one another. "You have enough to worry about this evening, Bee. We can talk afterward."

"When?"

The silence was unbearable.

"Aren't you due in Rorikstead?" Farkas then offered. "If we're in the Reach, we can try to be there. We can finally take a dragon down together."

"I suppose that's better than nothing," she replied. "I'll look for a note from you at the inn." She sighed. She hated to leave the cocoon of Farkas's limbs, but it was getting past time for them all to go.

"Breakfast, then. I suppose you'll be able to eat now, Vilkas?"

She didn't bother trying to interpret his look of shock.

"Breakfast," Farkas answered, "and then see you when next we meet."

* * *

  
Miel trained for an hour, and then Tullius and Adventus took the rest of her morning to go over the plans once more. Shortly before Tullius dismissed her for midday, a breathless courier from Fort Hraggstad arrived.

The General grew even grimmer upon reading the message, then handed it to Adventus.

"Head down to the mess for some ale and rest yourself, soldier," Tullius told the courier. "Return for my reply when you're done."

He took paper and a quill and began to scribble as Adventus passed the note to Miel.

> Northwatch contact reports werewolf attack on Thalmor patrol in Steepfall-Rimerock area. Remains found by subsequent patrol upon shift change. Two soldiers, one mage dead on discovery. Third soldier survived to state type of attacker before dying to injuries.
> 
> Possible relation to attack near Shadowgreen Cavern due to similar victims and injuries to bodies/remains.
> 
> Ambassador Elenwen requesting small unit from Hraggstad or Dour as additional Embassy security this evening.
> 
> Requesting advance supply of arrows, tipped with silver.

"A werewolf, sir?" Miel said. A chill swept over her. The twins would be at Steepfall. They could handle a few beasts, she was sure, but she didn't know what a werewolf was like. What if they crossed paths with the one that attacked the Thalmor? Gods, as if this absurd mission couldn't grow any more dangerous for everyone involved.

"Likely more ordinary beasts. Trolls, perhaps," Adventus said. "Those things hit hard if you're not careful. There's always been trouble with beasts around Rimerock and the old Pinefrost tower." He nodded at Miel. "Perhaps Falk Firebeard should ask the Companions to deal with it while they're in town, eh, Quaestor?"

Miel ignored the bait. She had been wanting to confront him about the Lord Harold Stone-Shoulders business, but something else began to gnaw at the back of her mind. "Surely, the Thalmor can handle a couple of trolls, sir. Did they see what the beasts looked like?" she asked.

Tullius pointed at the paper in her hand. "You know as much as I do, Quaestor. But, were you not trained to fight werewolves? They used to plague the fens near Camlorn; did you never encounter any when you served there?"

She shook her head. "Only in a tale or two. I was rotated between Camlorn, Aldcroft, Westry, and Eagle's Brook, sir, and I never saw such a beast. My captain gave the basic knowledge, but he said the werewolves retreated to the mountains long ago."

Tullius sighed. "That is true. In Skyrim, too, the reports of werewolves tend to come from the south, where the woods are thicker — easier for packs to hide. With all the soldiers from here to Northwatch, it's risky for any of them to hunt in Haafingar."

Miel read the note again. "A similar incident near Shadowgreen. That's just below the hill of the Embassy, isn't it?"

Adventus nodded. "Pieces of another patrol were found in the area yesterday. Same thing. When they didn't return for the shift change, the patrol after them found what was left." He snorted. "No one left to tell that tale, so I thought it was beasts then, too. You never clear a cave for long before someone else moves in. If it really is a werewolf, then it's new to the neighborhood, or a tourist. A Thalmor-hunting tourist."

"Maybe it likes the taste of elves," Tullius replied.

Miel didn't join the Legate's laughter. He seemed a bit flippant, to be referring to "pieces" of Thalmor.

A memory resurfaced: black fur, eyes as pearly as the moon, and teeth like daggers — had the beast near the Nightgate Inn been a werewolf? It might have been a trick of the moonlight or the confusion of combat, but the sight had been too monstrous to be a normal animal. Miel had not considered werewolves at all. Was that what Skjor had truly hunted down? Wouldn't it be funny if Skjor himself —

Her blood ran cold. It had been Farkas's voice she'd heard that night, in the Pale. She had been absolutely certain it was him, and she had struggled at first to take Skjor at his word. What if Skjor had only been protecting his colleague? She should have looked inside the cave, no matter how double-edged his invitation had sounded.

Adventus had called the culprit a tourist. Hadn't Farkas been a visitor to Haafingar this week? Miel's heart began to pound. Where did he really go the other night, when he supposedly walked to the lighthouse? The lighthouse wasn't too far from Shadowgreen Cavern. He even had a reason to go after the Thalmor.

Only, the werewolf had attacked two patrols in two nights, and Farkas had been with her all last night, she recalled with quick relief. He hadn't had time to go all the way to Rimerock after they fell asleep. Vilkas was the one who had been gone, from the afternoon till the following morning. Vilkas — gods, Vilkas had been near Rimerock and Steepfall. Picking out a spot, Farkas had said. If he had witnessed the werewolf attack, he would have said something, surely. If he had committed it, on the other hand —

Her dream. He had "let one go", one that was "as good as done." The report said the surviving Thalmor soldier had succumbed to their injuries. These were only coincidences, surely. They had to be. She had to have been dreaming.

"Elenwen likely asked for support from Northwatch to replace the Embassy patrol lost at Shadowgreen," Adventus was saying, "but now that the numbers at Northwatch are further reduced, that fort will be undermanned. It's too late for them to pull some back from the other holds, so they need to borrow, shuffle in some of our own men tonight. Luck might be on our side here."

"Perhaps, and perhaps not," Tullius said. "It would be harder for them to take her with so many of our own eyes watching the Embassy. But once they've taken her, our own men cannot lift a finger, even if they march her past our noses in full regalia. We are not yet ready to spark another war between us and them; we need to deal with Ulfric still. Quaestor? Soldier, are you all right?"

Miel snapped to attention.

"You've gone pale," the General remarked. "You need to steel yourself tonight."

"Yes, sir, I — I was just thinking. Surprised, mostly. Werewolves." She had to be wrong. For the love of Dibella, Mara, and Kyne, she had to be wrong.

"Well, the mercenaries should be getting into place by now," Adventus said. "Werewolves, trolls, or whatever, there will be people to keep you safe tonight."

Only, they wouldn't entirely be people, would they? Not if what she imagined was true.

"He's right," Tullius said. "You just concentrate on your part. Who knows? You might even enjoy this stupid party."

He then handed her a small, shining object. "Take a good look at this, and then return it to me." It was a gold signet ring, engraved with a pelican. "Our infiltrator is a male Altmer, with dark eyes and sandy blond hair. Don't bother seeking him out; he will be dressed to blend in. But, if he needs to make contact with you for any reason, he will show you this ring and mention baked pumpkin."

He dismissed her at last, with notes to drop off with the fletcher and the blacksmith regarding the arrows and silver. Six sheaves. It felt like putting in kill orders on the twins, in her own behalf. Images of them studded with arrows thrust themselves upon her. Miel numbly made her way back to the Winking Skeever.

She remembered the scene near Greenspring Hollow on their birthday: deer and a saber cat ripped to pieces by teeth and claws. Limbs and guts had littered both banks of the inlet to the River Hjaal. Patches of the campground had been stained with blood. Vilkas had blamed the cat for the deer, and wolves for the cat, but she could not shake the feeling now that this was a lie. He let himself go on his birthday; that's what he'd said.

"I thought you were talking about mead," she whispered. The thought of it happening to people made her ill.

As she crossed through the dining area of the inn, she remembered all those moments Farkas had seemed on the verge of telling her some great secret. At best, she'd thought it was some personal insecurity or petty concern, to be soothed with kisses and affirmation. At worst — some hidden affair, perhaps; a crime in his youth, a taste for skooma, a bastard child — nothing unacceptable nor unforgivable. Nothing like this.

Now that she was looking, there were too many clues in plain sight: the motifs in Farkas's drawings, the twins' matching tattoos, the embellishments on their armor, the way they saw in the dark, even the color of their eyes — they'd always had gray eyes, but had they always been so bright, so piercing, so hungry? She couldn't trust her own memories. Even Little Bee had been intimidated by the twins of Jorrvaskr.

Kodlak had the same eyes; so did Skjor, and so did Aela the Huntress. Miel had sometimes wondered why these mostly male, pale-eyed Nords made up the Companions' leadership. Besides prejudice, there was an old superstition that gray eyes made better marksmen. Could there really be a more sinister reason? Gods, she could not shake the feeling. Those were the eyes she had seen that night in the Pale, and the men all had that wolf armor. The Circle, then. The Circle were werewolves.

That made it some sort of pact or ritual, she realized. That made it a choice. They were not under some curse; nor had they been stricken with disease. Farkas and Vilkas had become werewolves by choice, and had been werewolves for the last three years.

There was no trace of either man in her room. The bed was made. The washstand was empty. The coals were fresh, unlit. The floor was swept. The linen shift Farkas had smudged with his blackened drawing hand was hanging on the screen, damp from washing. Miel collapsed across the blanket, confused by the fact that she missed the twins with an intense ache, despite what she had uncovered. She was overcome by pain, rage, and fear.

They had broken through her defenses and won her trust while withholding this black truth about themselves. That was the worst of it. Then, those bastards had taken turns distracting her with lies and sex while hunting — assassinating — Thalmor these last two nights. Every touch, every kiss, every letter, every conversation in the past several months was recast in doubt. Who, or what, had she given herself to? Who, or what, had she come to love? Strangers at best, beasts at worst.

But, could she really think of them as beasts? So many of the memories she now questioned were too good. Vilkas comforting her with his words and his ardor during the siege. Farkas charming her little family with humor, warmth, and food. The night of Balgruuf's feast. The morning after their birthday. That first walk home from the Bannered Mare as the snow fell. It was hard to map what she knew of werewolves onto the men she knew from those memories. Men who made her laugh, who pushed her buttons in the best and worst ways, who made her feel wanted, loved, and seen.

Surely, her imagination was only getting carried away, she thought in a last attempt. It was madness. With a dying Gildergreen, Jorrvaskr was the pride of Whiterun, and Jarl Balgruuf would never let a pack of werewolves live in the heart of the city. The number of people who would need to keep the secret if he did — the guards, the powers that be in Dragonsreach, the healers — there was no way such a secret could survive. Was Whiterun's honor, and the honor of the storied Companions through all the centuries, staked on hiding something so frightening? There was simply no way.

And yet, Miel knew with a sinking feeling that Dragonsreach held generations of secrets, too. Nord pride was something else — they were fighting a war for it, after all. It wasn't impossible, though she hoped with all her heart that it was.

She remembered all those little comments Farkas and Vilkas had made, about how their way of life had left no room for convention, for settling down, or for lasting love. Was this the real reason, then? Merciful Mara, to think she had been daydreaming about a house that morning.

What arrogant fools they were, to set themselves in the hills between a Thalmor stronghold and an Imperial fort, where they were sure to get themselves killed! That was another hard thing, to know that she did still care.

"I want you alive," she said aloud, willing her words to be carried to Steepfall somehow. "Blessed Kyne, I want you alive, so you can explain this thrice-damned mess to my face."

* * *

  
Early in the party, Tullius prodded her to cause a scene, and Miel then decided to spend the rest of the night in character, taking notes from Tertius's drinking companions. She flirted with Jarl Siddgeir and with Jarl Elisif. She traded loud, crude jokes with a merchant named Razelan. She was rude to Elenwen, the host, and trod on Maven Black-Briar's hem. She had one too many cups of Argonian bloodwine — the only drink the mole Malborn would let her have, because it at least cured poison.

Tullius regarded her with a mix of disappointment and shock, but she didn't care. Whenever she sensed him approaching to rein her in, she slipped away to another group of guests to either charm or offend. He had wanted Miel to be a distraction, and to act a little stupid, so she was the very picture of the brash northern hero the Dragonborn was supposed to be.

She was almost sorry. It was a nice party, set outdoors in the Embassy's manicured courtyard. Pantea Ateia and her students provided the entertainment. The air smelled of lavender and spring blossoms. Every few minutes, servants sent balls of magelight into the air, to hover over the guests and cast a silvery shine upon the scene. The food was excellent; if she'd had pockets, she would have nicked a few tarts for later. Sofie would have loved the creme ones.

Miel kept just enough of her wits about her to watch for Tullius's spy, but there were too many Altmer of the same description milling about. In that sense, she supposed, he had chosen the best person to infiltrate the solar.

Then, the dancing began, and someone took her arm.

"Shame there's no baked pumpkin," he said. "I know it's not in fashion for a party at this time of year, but I do love it all the same."

They shook hands, and Miel caught sight of the signet ring. To her shock, it was attached to an Altmer in full hooded Thalmor Justiciar robes. She failed to suppress a laugh. Ingenious.

"And what do I call you, sir?" she said, following his lead. Dark eyes. Sandy hair. A beard, too, on a drawn face. A bit stiff for a dance partner, though.

"Lin will do. It's a pleasure to meet you, Quaestor." In a low voice, he added, "Say something insulting."

"Tsun's balls, Lin! Do you all take your dance lessons with a stick up your ass on the Summerset Isles?"

He pursed his lips, but his eyes sparkled. "I would have expected you to have learned the ways of court in your temple, Dragonborn. But, I suppose Skyrim scrubs all the polish off anything good and decent once it's up here," he sneered. "Well done," he added softly. "There's something you need to see. Urgently. Go into the solar through the east window when you can get away."

Lin then stepped on her foot.

"Ugh! I'll take good dancing over good manners any day!" she cried. Lin then made an obviously hollow apology and slipped into the crowd.

Siddgeir, eager to oblige, quickly replaced the Altmer and began attacking her with what he believed was charisma. Miel pretended he was funny while searching the crowd of guests for General Tullius, for confirmation. He was deep in conversation with Elenwen and Elisif, on the other side of the courtyard. Had he seen her make contact with Lin? No matter. If it was urgent, then it was urgent.

She went left when Siddgeir tried to lead her right, and they became entangled with another couple in the dance. She had lost sight of Lin, but then there were so many attendees in those black robes. Miel excused herself to the toilets and then skirted the courtyard toward the solar.

From the window, she dropped as silently as she could into the room, but it seemed unguarded. Lin was standing in what looked like a pantry and gestured for her to join him, quickly.

"Take this, all of it," he said, pressing a potion bottle into her hand. "You'll want your head clear for what you're about to see."

Miel grimaced. It was warm and thick. The aftertaste was not unpleasant, but she began to regret having had all that wine. She drank it down, mustered her focus as best she could, and followed Lin across the sitting area, toward a desk where some papers lay. He handed her a dossier, opened to the first page.

"Look at this, Quaestor," Lin said. He stood just behind her, at her shoulder. "They've been looking for a Blades agent named Delphine. Has she been in contact with you?"

Her eyebrows rose higher and higher as some of the details sunk in through her tipsy haze. "Killed an entire assassination team, wow," she said. "Well. Seen her only once, Lin."

"Really? Where? It's important; we must ensure her safety."

Lin was nice. Tall. "Um." What had she said to Rikke? "Bleak. Bleak Falls. Barrow?"

"Ah, that little skeeverhole. Do you know where she is now?"

Miel shook her head. Something didn't seem right. The room should have been guarded, but they were alone. Had Lin taken all the guards out? What an asset he was to the spy corps. She would have to commend him to Adventus when she got back to Castle Dour.

"Never saw her again. I despise her," she said.

"What did she want with you?"

"To watch me kill a dragon. She was too paranoid to believe I was who I said I was. Dragonborn."

Lin's lips curled up in a small smile. What a nice smile. "Would you know how to contact her again? Did you make more plans to meet? It's important," he repeated.

Miel shook her head, then regretted it. Too much wine. Too warm in her belly, in her throat. "I don't know. I don't think she'd be good to work with. I wasn't even sure she was a Blade."

"Ah. That's too bad. All right, Quaestor, let's move downstairs. There's something else there you need to see."

Lin opened a chest behind the desk and replaced the dossier. Miel glimpsed others labelled "Ulfric Stormcloak" and "Miel Guillaume" inside.

"That one!" she cried. "I want to see that one."

Lin shushed her and laughed softly. Such a good laugh. Altmer were more handsome when they laughed, even if it sounded a little mean. "There's no time. And, there's nothing in there that you don't already know, Quaestor. Come on."

He straightened the jade circlet on her head, softly patted her cheek, and bid her walk ahead of him. How kind he was.

Downstairs was a room of barred cells, implements of torture, and low light. It was much too warm. Miel still felt buzzed, too.

"Lin, I don't think your potion is working," she said.

He grinned. "Oh, it wasn't a potion. Just some spiked cordial."

She giggled. "I should have known. You're a terrible joker, Lin. And, this is a terrible room." Through the bars, Miel glimpsed two pairs of limp hands suspended in shackles, and she shuddered. "What did you need me to see? I want to leave."

Lin gently guided her toward the desk by the cells. He sat her down in the chair and handed her another booklet out of a chest. He stood over her, with one hand on her shoulder and another on the desk, as she read the first page. So protective.

The Thalmor wanted someone named Esbern. Another Blade, hiding out in Riften this time.

"Hoho!" she cried. "So, they don't even know why the dragons are here. I knew this party would be a waste."

"Have you met this man?" Lin pressed.

Miel shook her head. "Never heard of him."

"Delphine never mentioned him?"

Again, she shook her head. "She was too paranoid to leave her house."

"I thought you said you met in Bleak Falls Barrow."

"Did I?"

"Yes. Is her house on Bleak Falls Mountain? Is that what you meant? Or, does she live in the barrow itself?"

Miel burped, feeling acid rise in her throat. Lin's cordial was not mixing well with everything else she'd had tonight, though perhaps it was her discomfort with the room. Blood had been shed there very recently; she could smell it.

Her eyes fell on the desk, where Lin's hand rested with the pelican ring. Tullius should have sized it properly; it seemed too tight for Lin. Nice, kind Lin.

A cold bolt of clarity cut through the haze. She glanced again at the hands in the shackles. Smaller hands than Lin's. One of the hands was missing a finger.

Tsun's balls. She really had been stupid at this party.

"Where did you get that ring, Lin?"

Immediately, he took her in a rear chokehold, and the hand grasping her shoulder sent lightning sparks through her body. She couldn't Shout. She couldn't even scream. She struggled to break his grip, but her body seized up in pain, and then she crumpled to the ground.

"Well done, Rulindil," she heard someone say.

"Thank you. Hand me the center one," he answered. "That's the one. A good heft to it, don't you think?"

There was a booted foot on her wrist, but she didn't feel the pain, only the weight. Then, everything went dark.

* * *

  
Pine. Dirt. The sound of wagon wheels, coming to an abrupt stop.

"It's an ambush, men! Protect the asset!"

Lin. Rulindil.

Miel started, but something was wrong. Her eyes were open, but there was nothing to see. She tried to conjure a bound sword, but the movement sent white hot pain through her bones. Gods, what was wrong with her hands?

There was something in her mouth, something wet and bitter. A gag, soaked with poison. She couldn't form the first word of a Shout. She couldn't even attempt a spell without screaming in agony.

Steel clashed all around her, and spells flew overhead. More than once, someone banged into the wagon, spiking excruciating jolts throughout her body, especially her hands. They hurt so much. She smelled the sea.

"Stand down, legionnaires! This is Thalmor business; you cannot interfere!"

She smelled blood; she was sure some of it was her own. Magicka poison didn't cause bleeding or pain. Stendarr have mercy, what had Lin done to her hands?

"We know what you're doing, elven scum! We know who you've taken!"

Swords rang out, along with battle cries, and cries of pain. The wagon shook again, and Miel was thrown against some surface. She realized she was in some sort of box.

Then, there was silence.

"Fool soldiers. Do you think we can complain about this to Tullius? Rub this triumph in his sour old face? Legionnaires attacking a Justiciar — he'd be sacked."

"Tsk. We can hold it over his head, to be sure. Put them on the wagon."

Miel felt things thud next to and on top of her box, and she screamed. Lin laughed.

"Pity about Fanyeor and the other one," his fellow said.

"It happens. Don't worry; we can manage the rest of the way to the keep by ourselves."

The wagon was on its way again. Every time a wheel went over a rock was pure torture. Her hands, her fingers felt all wrong. Even as she felt the poison leave her blood at last, she couldn't cast a thing without wanting to die.

"What's this?" Dogs were barking, until suddenly, they weren't. There were more sounds of fighting ahead.

"The fun's not over yet, my friend. Ready now!"

"Safia, I'm warning you!" Miel knew that voice. "Get out of here, or you will die with the rest!"

An ungodly roar ripped through the night. Miel was gripped with more terror than she had ever felt in her life. She began to sob, but there was no one to hear. Mama, she pleaded, Mama please come and get me.

"Oh gods, there are two of them! No one said there were two of them!"

"Fall back! The asset! The wagon! The silver swords are in the wagon! Fall ba — "

There was a sickening gurgle and a tearing sound. Then, the wagon sank beneath Miel as a great weight dropped onto it. She cried out in despair and agony.

Suddenly, she was blinded as the box was pulled apart, and the moons filled her field of vision. No, not moons. Eyes. Silver eyes, against pitch-black fur. Crushing jaws lined with long, yellowed, bloodied teeth. Three shafts sticking out of a massive arm with razor claws reaching for her body.

Then, nothing once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for drunkenness, gore, death, coercion, kidnapping, and torture. Yikes. :(
> 
> \--  
> From the Illusion training with Fasendil to this point, these chapters have been the result of wondering how the Thalmor might actually handle the Dragonborn if they knew she/he was coming. It always seems kind of silly that Elenwen doesn't know who you are in the game, especially when so many of her guests do. She and her buddies manipulated Ulfric and continue to manipulate the conflict in Skyrim; surely, they'd do something about the Dragonborn mucking things up for them.
> 
> It's also been tricky to think about how a superhero can be overpowered by less powerful enemies, but all I had to remember was how many times mere bandits have killed me in this game. It's not implausible. The Dragonborn is powerful, but not all-powerful.
> 
> As for Farkas and Vilkas, well, the honeymoon phase is clearly over. It didn't make sense to wait till Dustman's Cairn for Miel to learn the truth.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings at the end.

She awoke in a strange bed, in a spare room of high stone walls. Light poured in from a great window, illuminating figures gathered, whispering, around some table. Wide red banners hung from the ceiling on either side of the window. One had the Seal of Akatosh. The other had the wolf of Solitude. Miel felt a small measure of relief. Castle Dour, then. Some part of Castle Dour she had never been.

She grew uneasy at the wolf's stare and looked away.

The people were a small cluster of mostly saffron robes and long red coats. Was she at the temple? No, the infirmary; she was wearing the light woolen robe of a patient. Her nostrils filled with the too-familiar scent of her own blood.

Her body ached. Her hands felt stiff. Immediately she remembered being in the box, and a whimper escaped her throat, catching the attention of one of the healers.

Gingerly, she raised her left hand and curled it into a summoning sign.

"Dragonborn, don't!"

She yelped as sharp spikes of pain shot through her hand, but she forced herself to complete the sign and then released.

A bound sword appeared. Her hand throbbed, and she noticed its many scars for the first time, but the sword was there, and it was her hand holding it. She flicked the ghostly blue blade back to Oblivion and burst into tears.

She could do it now. Why couldn't she do it before, in the box? Where had her magic been when she needed it?

"Oh, Blessed Kynareth."

Was that Danica? What was Danica Pure-Spring doing in Solitude?

"I knew we should have used splints," said another voice.

The healers began to swarm.

"We knew we'd have to remove them anyway, and we didn't expect her to wake yet. Did you not dose her properly, sister?"

"I'm sure I did; perhaps she's developed a tolerance."

"That might be a problem, given Colette's proposal. Did she dislodge a fragment?"

"Possibly more than one. We'll have to go in again."

Miel drew back, against the wall at the head of the bed.

"Hey!" she cried. "Someone talk to me! What in Oblivion is going on here?!"

The healers froze.

Danica pushed forward with a little tray for her lap and a steaming cup of something dark. It smelled sweet and earthy.

"What is this?" Miel demanded.

"Only tea," Danica assured her. "An herbal brew from Black Marsh."

Carefully, Miel set her hands around the cup and let the heat seep into her aching fingers. She looked at the healers one by one. She recognized Danica, of course, and Rorlund from the temple here at Castle Dour. The High Priest's robes were embroidered with Stendarr's cups today. The rest of the group was unfamiliar: an acolyte healer, a pinched-looking woman in a high-level mage's robes, and a salt-and-pepper-haired man with the badge and red coat of a Legion surgeon.

Good for hiding blood, Miel thought — at least until it dried. She wondered if the dark splotches were her own.

It was the surgeon who spoke first, in the soothing tones all good healers seemed to have, along with a strong Bretic accent. Miel felt herself relaxing a little as he spoke.

"Quaestor, I am Jean Dumont," the surgeon began. "How are you feeling? What can you remember?"

Silver eyes flashed in her mind. She shuddered, fingers clumsily feeling inside her robe for the ribs that the wolf's claws had reached for. She felt her own skin, intact.

"You're all there," Dumont said with a slight smile. "Your body heals itself at an incredible rate. I had heard stories, but to see it for myself — I have never seen anyone recover from that much lightning damage so quickly."

"How did I even get here?" Miel asked. "What day is it?"

Rorlund answered the second question, and she felt a little more grounded. Only two days since the party.

"A guard found you at the western mouth of the Dragon Bridge, sometime before sunrise yesterday," Dumont continued. "You arrived here at Castle Dour with one of Commander Maro's men, on his own horse. You were marked all over with lightning flowers. But, with us here, any damage your body had not already repaired on its own was gone within the hour."

Dumont hesitated, then anger crept into his voice. "Your hands — you can see they are a different matter."

Miel peeled her hands away from the warmth of the cup and held them up to the light. There were bumps and bends in her fingers that had not been there before. Her hands were spotted with patches of tight pink skin where flesh had regrown. There were scars on top of scars.

"What did they do to me?" she whispered. It was a mercy she had been unconscious for whatever it had been.

Dumont's face darkened. He glanced at the other healers and switched to Bretic. The others glanced around in confusion. Only the mage seemed to follow, and she pretended, badly, not to understand.

"We have been told that you wandered, drunk, away from the party and into the woods, and you got into a fight. Your injuries — perhaps the battle, the freak storm, the rockslides, or the werewolf attack. But, any fool knows that skirmishes, weather, and werewolves do not have such — focus," the surgeon said bitterly. "There are very few up here who would host a lavish spring party that a guest could leave in your condition."

Dumont then took a breath and continued in the common language, softening his tone. "The bones were practically pulverized, then made to heal in the wrong positions. We have been working to knit them back together, but — "

"But, what?"

"Your own fast healing has made it somewhat difficult. Your body wants to be whole again, is trying to help us, but we have had to fight its efforts, as it is not a trained surgeon."

"Fight?"

"Undo."

That explained why some of the scars seemed so fresh, and perhaps why the healers looked so drawn.

Hot tears streamed from Miel's eyes, and she suppressed the fire rising in her throat. Rulindil had better be dead. Perhaps she would finally try necromancy, just for the pleasure of putting him down again herself.

She had never broken a bone before joining the Legion. Her skin rarely scarred. Her mother had believed her blessed somehow — something to do with her being around Kynareth's temple before she was even born, perhaps, before they left Whiterun for High Rock.

Turning the surgeon's words over in her mind now, Miel felt the opposite of blessed.

She summoned a bound sword again and made basic thrusts in the air. Hot spikes shot through her hand, and the sword vanished as she hissed in pain. 

Miel fought to keep the panic out of her voice. "Are you going to keep trying?" she asked. She needed her hands. "I don't have control over how fast I heal."

The healers exchanged looks of uncertainty. The mage then stepped forward, short braids swinging on either side of her face.

"Colette Marence, Restoration Master at the College of Winterhold," she said with some excitement. "Arrived at the same time as Danica this morning. There is something we want to try, with your permission."

"Something _you_ want to try, Colette," Rorlund put in.

She ignored him. "Essentially, we want to stretch your fast healing. We want to reinjure you, poison you, diffusing your regenerative capacity across your body, taking up more of the energy it has been putting into your hands."

"We don't even know if this will work," Danica said quickly. "We have never tried anything of this sort before. We would be experimenting on you, Dovahkiin, with no guarantee of results. It could be extremely dangerous."

"This would very well be the first test of a Dragonborn's self-healing abilities in centuries," Colette added, not even bothering to hide a smile.

Rorlund shook his head. "Try not to seem so eager, mage," he said. "She is the Divines' chosen, not some laboratory specimen to be poked and prodded."

"It could be painful, Quaestor," Dumont warned. "These combinations Mistress Marence has in mind might not mix well with our sleeping potions. You could be awake through the entire process. It would be excruciating." 

Miel barely needed a moment.

"Do it."

Danica paled. "Dovahkiin — Bee — we don't know how much poison to use, or if it will even work. We might severely tax other organs while chasing this foolish idea, of spreading your healing capacity thin somehow. What if this only kills you?"

"Then, it's just as well," Miel said quietly. The room fell silent. "I can't fight, can't cast spells without my hands. And if I can't do those things, I'm useless."

The priestess grew alarmed. "You mustn't think that," she said. "You'll still have your family — the children, the men — they still — "

Miel shook her head. Danica meant well, but she didn't understand.

"You priests can't call me chosen, say the gods have put me here for a reason, and call me the great hero everyone needs, then give me the same consolation you give any other wounded soldier." She clenched her fists in frustration, only for the frustration to grow with the pain. "I am the only one who can make a dead dragon stay dead. Skyrim will burn if I cannot fight, and the rest of Tamriel will follow."

Colette raised her brows. "A bit of a complex, I see," she murmured to Dumont. "Listen, Dragonborn, spellcasting is a personal style. Styles change. Even if you never pick up a sword again, you can still fight with spells, once you've developed new ways to draw from Aetherius. I heard of someone who used his feet to — "

Miel shot her a withering glare. "My feet need to be on the field, Mistress Mage. War and dragons won't wait for me to fix a new personal style."

Her focus began to cut through the fog. She was close to something. She needed to find someone, someone who knew more about the dragons and would make everything clear. Rulindil had mentioned a name.

She felt a chill. "Where is the General? I think I have something. It's urgent."

Rorlund frowned. "There will be time for your debriefing later. You haven't even eaten since the other night."

At the mention of food, Miel realized he was right, but she was not about to be dismissed.

"All right, I'll eat, but then I need to see the General. Or Legate Adventus at least. And then you can poison me."

"Bee — " Danica began.

"If I can't fight, it doesn't matter what else you do to me," Miel snapped. Angry tears sprang from her eyes. "Nothing will matter. So, do whatever you see fit. Break the rest of me if you have to. I need to be able to fight again."

Only Colette did not look unsettled by her words.

"We will need to confer," Dumont finally said, and the healers took their leave.

Soon afterward, an attendant brought in some bland porridge with a side of fruit and more of the Black Marsh tea. The spoon felt alien in her hand; her grip did not feel like her own.

Alone now, Miel turned her thoughts back to the Embassy, and she began to burn with shame.

It should have been harder for the Thalmor to incapacitate her. Instead, she had done half their work for them, by giving into her feelings about the twins' secret and getting drunk during a critical mission. She had then trusted the wrong person — by mistake, but it had taken Rulindil only a moment on that dance floor.

In the solar, she had failed to recognize the charm spell working until it was too late. Whatever Lin had given her to drink had masked the telltale signs of Illusion as part of her own general intoxication. She had swanned into their torture chamber — their torture chamber! — like the idiot she was. He had played her like a lute, and then he had taken her out.

There was little consolation from her belief that Rulindil was dead. She was sure now; she remembered the horrible noise he had made before — before the werewolf ripped open the box. A pine box, she realized with dread. But, even if he was dead, the Justiciar had accomplished what his people had wanted; he had weakened her, removing her as a force in the war to reunite Skyrim.

Miel forced a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. Somehow, she was going to make the Thalmor regret not killing her outright.

She grimaced as pain pulsed through her fingers. There were potions on a little table by the bed, but the healers had neglected to tell her which one to take for some comfort. She had never needed such a potion before. For a moment, she thought of using Feim, but the Shout would not last even a minute. There was no escape.

This experiment Colette had in mind — Miel suspected a similar ordeal had awaited her in Northwatch Keep. Instead of the Restoration Master, it would have been the Justiciars gaining the dubious achievement of knowing her limits. Something for their little dossier.

She vaguely wondered what they had on Ulfric.

And now, it seemed, her torture would continue at the Legion's own hands.

Three knocks sounded from the door, and Miel hurriedly wiped her tears on her arms. "Come in," she called.

She expected the healers, but it was Tullius and Adventus who entered the room. Both men looked ashen. They exchanged basic pleasantries, including hopes for her recovery.

"Are you able to go through a debriefing?" the General asked. "You may continue to eat."

Miel nodded, but her appetite was gone.

"Tell us what happened. As much as you can remember," Adventus said. "The General said he lost sight of you. Elenwen's people said you and your dance partner made plans and left early."

Miel's shame redoubled, with a touch of anger at the insinuation. She gave them a summary of what happened with Rulindil.

"You warned me to keep my head clear, sir, but I disobeyed. I know this is my own fault. I had — I had learned something disturbing about some people close to me, and I let it cloud my judgment."

Adventus shook his head. Guilt crept into his expression, too. "Rulindil was the chief of interrogations and knew how to take every advantage," he said. "As long as he gained your trust, a charm spell would have worked. I should have introduced you to our own spy, so you would have known his face. I was worried about deniability."

Tullius ran a hand over his own features. "I felt something was wrong the moment you started with Siddgeir and Razelan. But, I had my eye on you the entire time. Elenwen must have chosen precisely that moment to steal my attention, cornering me with Elisif and her questions about our progress in the Rift."

All of them seemed in shock that things had gone so badly. Miel wondered vaguely what Legate Fasendil would think of her failure.

She saw Adventus looking at her hands. He hesitated before his next questions. "Can you remember details?" he asked slowly. "Were you interrogated? What did Rulindil want from you?"

The memory she had grasped for earlier continued to elude her for a while.

"The Blades," she finally said, slowly piecing things together. "They're looking for surviving Blades in Skyrim. Delphine is definitely one of them. A man named Esbern, hiding somewhere in Riften, is another. They want Esbern especially because he knows about dragons. He's a lore master." She laughed bitterly. "The Thalmor have nothing to do with the dragons, sir. Not yet, anyway. We were wrong."

Adventus was taking notes in a small book. "We still know a bit more than before," he said. "It's something."

Miel sighed through her nose. Did he understand what it had cost?

"Send a team to Riften to see if this Esbern exists, then extract him," Tullius told the Legate. "We need to reach this lore master before the Thalmor do."

"I'll go, too," Miel said.

"Quaestor — "

"If he's anything like Delphine, he would rather die than be dragged out of his hideyhole by red soldiers," she said. "He'll think you're working with the Dominion to exterminate him. Those fools won't move for anyone but the Dragonborn herself — if they'd even believe me," she muttered.

Adventus shook his head. "We would not be charging in there in Imperial red. Riften is behind enemy lines. Rikke is moving on Fort Greenwall tonight — "

"Without me?"

"— and the Stormcloaks in the city will be on high alert, preparing for a siege following. We'll need a small, more tactical unit."

"What about a unit already on the inside?" Tullius asked. "Do you still have contacts with the Thieves Guild, Legate? They know Riften better than anyone. This Esbern is probably somewhere in their own Ratway."

"Hmm." Adventus frowned in consideration. "They're not as picky as the Companions; business is just business to Mercer Frey." Miel saw it again, the look of guilt. "But, that means he'd take Elenwen's money, too. Eight curse them; everyone knows Maven Black-Briar has that guild under her thumb. She would probably encourage some sort of bidding war for this Esbern's fate. On the other hand — "

"Yes?" Tullius prodded.

"We found a guild member among the bodies when we retrieved our own agent's remains from the tunnel this morning," Adventus replied quietly. "Signs of torture. Some spiteful neutrality on the guild's part is likely. But, it does suggest this lead in Riften might be credible."

He then turned back to Miel. "The healers say you're not ready to fight."

She scowled. "Well, the sooner we can get this meeting over with, sir, the sooner they can come back and fix me."

"Quaestor," Tullius warned.

She was sullen, but she lowered her voice. "You are going to need me there," she insisted. "The Blades have no loyalties, except possibly to the Dragonborn."

Both men shook their heads, but Miel caught the doubt in their eyes.

The General changed the subject. "Let us get back to what happened at the Embassy first. We need to know if you compromised anything on our side. On your side."

Miel gnawed on her cheek. She wanted to put the Embassy out of her mind completely.

"Lin tried to find out how much contact I've had with these Blades, if I've been working with them," she said. "He knows as much as you do about that, sir. When I saw the — our agent's — hands, the missing finger, I knew what was happening, and then — the questioning ended. Lightning, and — " she slowly grasped her neck and swallowed.

Adventus nodded. "Do you remember anything of what happened near Steepfall Burrow?" he then asked.

Terror curled around her spine as the howl rang out in her memory. Miel could feel the rope digging into her skin, the wet roughness of the gag, the first spikes of pain in her mangled hands. The blindness, the scent of pine, the sounds of steel clashing and flesh tearing —

"Perhaps we should continue at another time," Tullius offered.

Violently, Miel shook her head. She did not want to go over it again.

"I woke up in a box." She shivered. "I couldn't Shout. I couldn't conjure help, a sword; my hands — I couldn't save myself." Saying it aloud caused her eyes to sting. "There was fighting, a lot of shouting. I couldn't see. And then, the wolf — "

She closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding.

"He opened the box. I think I fainted, at the sight of him."

"Did the werewolf hurt you?"

Not in a way they could see. "I don't think so. Did the healers mention anything?"

Both officers shook their heads.

"How did you get to Dragon Bridge in your condition?"

"I don't know."

The men were silent. "Adventus, we had better let her rest," Tullius then said.

She raised her eyes in confusion. "No one told you? No one saw what happened?"

Adventus was grim. "You are the only known survivor," he said quietly. "Your captor — I believe he suffered a great deal."

Miel nodded at the confirmation, yet she barely felt any better.

More memories were returning now.

"There were soldiers, our soldiers — they tried to interfere," she recalled. "The Thalmor said they would hold it against you, General."

Tullius sighed. "Honorable men and women from Hraggstad, all of them — members of the unit we lent to Elenwen. They had been watching the tunnel beneath the Embassy and likely followed the wagon. If any Thalmor had survived, I would have been forced to disavow them all." He rubbed his temples with one hand. "At the moment, the official account is that pirates — Adventus's mercenaries — tried to raid a Thalmor supply run. You were taking a long walk in the woods to clear your head when you and these other Legionnaires came to their aid. The werewolf came. You escaped with your life."

Adventus regarded Miel with unease.

"And the werewolves?" she found herself asking.

The Legate's eyes widened. "There was more than one?"

She didn't answer.

"No sign of it, or them, apart from the remains of their prey," Tullius said. "The weather was strange in the hills after you were found. A thunderstorm, a small rockslide. The tracks were washed away or covered."

He gave a frustrated sigh before continuing. "It took us a while to find our own clairvoyant to send to Hraggstad. The commander there reports that the trail crossed the Karth, out of Haafingar. Unless the beasts attack here again, it's up to the Jarl of whatever hold they're in now."

Miel felt some relief, despite everything.

She missed them, she realized. She wanted to be kissed and cuddled and made to laugh, and to forget. Then, she thought of the bloody fangs, and coarse fur instead of skin touching her, and she shuddered.

Adventus had been increasingly uncomfortable through the conversation. Finally, he unburdened himself.

"I do have a theory regarding how you got to Dragon Bridge," he said. "The Companions — your Companions — I hired them through a middleman to be on the mercenary team that was to secure you."

There it was.

"Guilds, companies — they know how to cooperate better than a handful of independent mercenary strangers. I thought the Red Wave and the Companions would be up to the task together," he explained. "They're some of the best. I knew you had a personal connection to the Companions, but I wanted the best."

Adventus paused. "When it was your men they sent, I even suspected the connection would lead the three of you to divulge your respective involvements in the mission, securing their commitment."

Yes, there it was. Tullius glowered at the Legate.

"Does every man in Haafingar intend to toy with me and my trust this week?" Miel said.

"I trust my subordinates to handle the details of our operations, but this is unacceptable," Tullius said quietly. "You should have sent them away. Or, you should have specified whom to send." He turned to Miel then. "The involvement of your own men, is that what compromised you at the Embassy?"

She looked away. He didn't know the half of it. But, her expression was enough.

"I'm sorry, sir," Adventus said. "Quaestor, I'm sorry to you as well. If knowing they were risking themselves for you was the reason — I had not considered — " He broke off. At least, he sounded sincere.

"I said you were the only known survivor," he continued, pleading. "But, from what we know of the remains — it's my belief that the Companions fought off the wolf, or wolves, and spirited you to Dragon Bridge, then led the beasts away. They do a lot of work in the mountains and the woods, don't they? I know they clear caves, too. They must have more experience dealing with such monsters."

"You have no idea," Miel said.

"They must. The ground was positively shining with silver arrows, but the state of the remains, the signs of feeding — it means the beasts — "

"Please," she said quietly.

"Legate," Tullius warned.

"Of course. I'm sorry."

Miel sensed they were about to excuse themselves then.

"You will send me to Riften, sir — ?"

Tullius shook his head. "Quaestor, you are in no condition for a — "

"Please, General. You were in the Great War. I'm sure it does not compare, but I was at Whiterun. We both know soldiers in no condition get sent back to the fighting anyway, when they're needed," she said. "You need me in Riften."

Tullius crossed his arms. "Need I remind you of the last time we sent you on a covert mission?"

Miel winced, but she would not back down. "I've done other missions for you, sir. You know this was different."

"If you couldn't convince Delphine you were Dragonborn by Shouting in her face, what makes you think this Esbern will listen to you?"

"I don't know. But, I don't think he'd listen to a pack of badly disguised soldiers claiming his life was in danger. Or were you planning to ask the Companions to handle this, too?" she added, looking at Adventus.

Miel slowly flexed her hands. She tried to ignore the painful pops. Gritting her teeth, she summoned a flame atronach into the room.

"I'll go with the team you put together," she said. "I'll stay at the rear and only use atronachs, and archery." Her aim still needed work; she couldn't imagine how her hands would improve that at all. But — "I have to be there. The Thalmor won't wait for me to get better before they take Esbern for themselves, sir. I refuse to let them beat us," she finished, quietly.

The atronach turned lazy somersaults with nothing to do.

Tullius shook his head. "This cannot be about revenge, Quaestor."

Miel took a deep breath, in and out of her nose. She fought down the Shout building in her throat.

"This is about personally making sure I did not go through this for nothing," she said, holding her hands up for the officers to see. "I got a name, information, a lead on this dragon business out of this — a piddling lead for what it's cost me — and if the Thalmor succeed in following it first, I will never rest."

"It won't be for nothing," Adventus said. "We'll make sure to root Esbern out and secure him before anyone else."

Miel closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. Perhaps she was being foolish again, but she did not want to linger any longer. The sooner she returned to the field, the sooner they would know they had not won. Her mind raced, her heart with it. She needed to gather her thoughts into something Tullius could not deny.

"As it is, I will never forgive myself for how I ended up like this," she began. "But, if you fail to find Esbern, the Thalmor get what they want anyway, and I will never forgive the Legion for sending me to that Embassy at all."

"Quaestor — "

"I will resign. You made me an officer; that gives me the right," she said coldly, feeling the force of all her anger, disappointment, betrayal, and shame. "I know you and Elenwen will sweep this under the rug because you have to, but people talk. Just listen to guard chatter. How would it look if I continued to serve the Legion, under the Dominion's thumb, after what it's gotten me? I would have no pride. The last time the Thalmor captured a Nord with the Voice, they produced a rebel."

Tullius looked shaken, pale. This would be the only time Miel would see him show any sort of fear.

"You wouldn't go to Ulfric — ?" Adventus whispered.

"I wouldn't go to anyone. Something is going on with the dragons; I can feel it. Something bigger than this stupid war. I need to know what it is. I need to see it through. I will go to Riften, with or without your approval, or your command."

Tullius chose his next words carefully. "You have been through a lot in a very short amount of time," he said. "And, I've been told your treatment will be difficult. Please reflect on this, Quaestor."

Miel had had enough, and little to lose. "Call the healers back, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mutilation/disfigurement and trauma.
> 
> \--  
> There is not a lot of Elder Scrolls lore on healing and Restoration, but my understanding is that Restoration accelerates the body's natural healing processes. Whether scars form depends on the healer's skill or the strength of the potion. Surgeons are also a thing, as the face sculptor herself notes that she was a chirurgeon, but I felt like using the simpler, more modern word.
> 
> The Dragonborn having accelerated healing and not keeping most scars is the middle ground I've chosen between dragon immortality and having a mortal human body. But, it isn't like healing in the movies where broken bones just snap perfectly back into place, because I just can't imagine bones being able to do that without some guidance.
> 
> I picked poison to slow Miel's healing, on the other hand, just because other forms of harm/injury to her body felt like too much.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warning for Miel's mental state.

South of Dragon Bridge was a small cliffside retreat in the Reach where an ally of the Circle lived in isolation. He was a nameless hunter, a werebear who would patch up wounds and ask no questions if they shared game or traded pelts. They kept a cache of spare clothing and hunting gear below his hut. It was there that Farkas and Vilkas dragged themselves, naked, bleeding, and feverish from silver, once Miel was somewhere the guards would see her.

To the best of his abilities, the bear man dug the arrowheads out of their flesh, stitched the wounds closed, and applied primitive alchemical poultices, but the silver would leave new scars on their bodies. He kept the arrowheads for melting down. Farkas and Vilkas didn't care.

They didn't talk about how they had spent the afternoon of the party leading Northwatch's werewolf hunters in circles through the woods, picking as many of them off as they could, until it was safe to actually join Safia in Steepfall Burrow. They didn't talk about how they had been forced to kill the Captain and her crew, when she refused to leave as the wagon from the Embassy approached. They didn't talk about how they had gorged themselves on the bodies once they changed, to heal even as the battle went on and silver arrows flew from every direction, until they were sure the only hearts left beating and uneaten were their own. They didn't talk about the scent of Miel's blood, and how grateful they had been for full bellies, when Vilkas ripped the lid from the coffin and lifted her out. They didn't talk about her shattered hands, or how fragile she had looked, lying on the cobblestones where they left her by the bridge. They didn't talk.

Farkas returned north only once, to hear the town gossiping about how the Penitus Oculatus had rushed the injured, unconscious Dragonborn on horseback to Castle Dour. Then, he and Vilkas bid the werebear goodbye and turned south.

They holed up in Reachwind Eyrie, an abandoned Dwemer tower overlooking the Karth. They foraged and hunted with bows for things to trade at the gates of Dushnikh Yal, whose residents couldn't care less who they were. They sparred with one another in the tower's little yard. Vilkas read the one book in the building several times over, and Farkas cracked it open a few times himself.

A few nights after reaching the Eyrie, Farkas went down to the Old Hroldan Inn to leave notes for the next passing courier, just to send Kodlak and Miel signs of life, but little else. He stood wordless for a time at the Shrine of Dibella, across the river, before heading back up the hill.

The following evening, Vilkas went all the way to Rorikstead, to leave a message for Miel at the Frostfruit Inn, only to find that the entire village had been evacuated to Whiterun. The dragon burial mound was still closed, but it seemed Balgruuf would not risk his people's lives to wait for the Dragonborn to heal. Only a few guards had been left behind to prevent looting.

Every night after that, they took turns visiting the burial mound, just to make sure. If the dragon rose without Miel around to take its soul, they could at least help the guards until she arrived.

Someone else was watching the dragon mound, too. They tracked her to a moldering ruin that smelled of vampires, killed recently. Vilkas recognized the sour blonde innkeeper of Riverwood, Delphine, but they stayed away.

From the Eyrie, they could see a mysterious ruin atop the island that divided the Karth, and they thought about exploring it. But, the cliff had too many difficult angles to scale, and they had not yet seen an entrance away from the Forsworn camp at Karthspire — a hornets' nest they did not want to poke.

They hunted as wolves, once, so deep into the mountains that they might have crossed into High Rock. All they had then were goats.

The dullness of life in the Eyrie was nothing. Work sometimes took Farkas away from Jorrvaskr for long stretches, and he was used to camping alone or with little company. It was something else that ate away at him as he struggled to fall asleep each night.

The circumstances under which Kodlak left them in Solitude, the uncertainty of their standing with the Harbinger, had set him adrift. What would the old man say to them when they finally got to go home? he wondered. What would he do?

Vilkas believed — said he believed — that Kodlak would let it go in time. The Harbinger could suspend them from the company for hunting Thalmor in Haafingar and risking the Circle's secrecy. But, the public explanation — an off-the-books job for personal reasons — would raise more questions than it answered. What happened to "every man is his own"? Past Companions had compromised their honor in worse ways.

No, Kodlak had to quietly put this business behind them, Vilkas reasoned. All the old man's dreams of Sovngarde were coloring the decisions they had made as living, breathing men, who had wanted to keep someone they loved living and breathing, too.

Still, the idea of no longer being Companions, long before they got as old as Vignar, rattled Farkas all the same. He had spent the first half of his life longing to be truly counted among the men and women of Jorrvaskr, the only home he had ever known, and then spent the last half proving he could be one of the Harbinger's most trusted lieutenants — his colleague, his confidant, his friend, his son. Farkas would do well enough as a mercenary on his own, but it wouldn't be the same.

And then, there was Bee. She had to have healed by now; she was the miraculous Dragonborn, and the Legion would undoubtedly get her the best healers for where the miracle fell short. All the same, Farkas longed for word of her recovery.

A week from their arrival at the Eyrie, he was sunning himself on the roof, sketching on rough, handmade paper from a Khajiit caravan, when he detected a commotion in the camp across the river. Finally, some action.

"Vilkas!" he called.

"What? I was about to check the Old Hroldan."

It was too early for Kodlak to tell them to come home, but his brother, too, hoped to hear something of Bee.

"Come up here. Something's rattled the Reachmen."

Vilkas came out onto the overlook, climbed the tower with muttered apologies to its Dwemer carvers, and pulled himself onto the golden tiles. "Please tell me it isn't just mudcrabs again. At least let it be a saber cat."

"Looks like bandits."

They watched in silence as five figures darted in among the brown and horned Reachmen. Two frost atronachs stormed the settlement as well.

"Oh, they've got mages with them," Vilkas noted. 

"Good. Forsworn are tricky bastards."

"It's their land."

Farkas snorted. "They don't need to kidnap innocent people for their weird rituals to make the point."

"But where would the Companions get their money, then?"

"Shh."

It was an interesting battle. The Reachmen greatly outnumbered the invaders, and Farkas suspected there was even a hagraven in the camp, but these bandits seemed exceptionally skilled.

He nudged his brother. "Want to make a bet? If the Forsworn win, you have to dress the next kill."

Vilkas groaned. "This is what our lives have come to. Fine. You're on."

"STRUN BAH!"

The Shout echoed across the rocks and the river, and Farkas thought his heart had stopped. Clouds swirled over Karthspire as rain began to fall and lightning struck some of the combatants. All of them scrambled for cover, except for one figure who continued to flit from foe to foe.

"Vilkas."

"I know. I think I've already won the bet."

Just when things seemed most interesting, there was a great, ancient roar. A dragon with thick bronze scales soared into the valley, from beyond the island and the hills, and began raining fire upon the skirmish. Steam rose where flames hit stone wet from the Thu'um-summoned storm.

"Shor's bones," Vilkas whispered. "I'd change my bet to the dragon."

"Don't you dare."

Now, it was truly a fight. After a minute or so, the storm cleared, and the surviving humans — bandits and Forsworn alike — turned their attention to the dragon. Whenever it rose to harry a different part of the camp, they turned on each other, only for another Shout to make room.

"We should get down there," Farkas said.

Vilkas grabbed his arm. "She's probably with soldiers. Not bandits. They'll be fine."

"We promised her we'd help her fight the dragon near Rorikstead. This must be it; they came from over the hill, so they've already been through the town." 

Vilkas shook his head. "Look at us, Farkas. Running into the fray from the opposite direction, in these old hides — we look like a couple of Reachmen ourselves. We could be shot on the spot."

Farkas gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "I still want a closer look," he decided.

Before Vilkas could say another word, he dropped onto the tower overlook, grabbed his pack and sword, and made his way down from the Eyrie. He could hear his brother following begrudgingly.

Farkas was brimming with excitement. She was here. She was much closer than Rorikstead; she was here. She had blades in her hands again, her magic, and her Voice — she was stronger than what the Thalmor had done to her, just as he had hoped. When he saw her, when he held her again —

Vilkas caught up to him near the bridge and grabbed him by the shoulder. "This is close enough."

Farkas grumbled. At least, from the bridge, they had a better view of the fighting. The ruin where the Forsworn camped became the tiers of a stage where Miel's power was on full display. One by one, the Reachmen fell before her as she made her way to the top.

She had a good team with her, too, Farkas noted. There was a dark man with an impressive shield bash. There was an orc woman with a bow. These two were Legion-trained; he could tell by the way they moved, even if their armor was non-uniform. The mage, on the other hand, was dressed in nothing but a light shirt and trousers, and another swordswoman in mercenary leathers — the missing Riverwood innkeeper — fought with them as well. All of them worked to thin the crowd, until only the dragon was left.

Miel darted underneath its wing, drove both sword and dagger into its side, and bellowed, "Wuld!" In the blink of an eye, she tore two long gashes in the dragon's flesh, all the way to its hindquarters. It roared and kicked her away, into the side of a Forsworn tent, but it exposed its neck for the orc to pierce with arrows. The mage sent an ice spike through its skull, and then it was done.

The shield man, a Redguard, helped Miel to her feet as the dragon's skin began to flake away. Wind rushed through the valley, and Miel caught her breath as her enemy's soul became one with her own. Then, all was still and silent except for bird calls and the flow of the river.

She sheathed her blades, stripped off her gloves, and immediately inspected her hands. Farkas grew troubled. That wasn't a good sign.

The shield basher's hands glowed over Bee's with yellow light. A medic as well as a fighter. They argued for a moment, and then the man threw up his hands in exasperation. He applied a salve to her palms before wrapping them up in linen, leaving her fingers free.

As she pulled her gloves on again, she glanced in the twins' direction and froze. One by one, the rest of her unit noticed them, too. The orc nocked an arrow. Delphine drew her sword and assumed a stance. The Redguard stepped in front of Miel. The mage's hands grew paler with frost.

Miel must have said something, however, because they relaxed. The medic began to treat the others while she scavenged among the Forsworn's things.

"She's going to wonder why you're not rushing over to sweep her off her feet," Vilkas said.

Indeed, Farkas had imagined doing that very thing, but he had that feeling again, of thunderclouds forming somewhere close by. Perhaps his brother's caution was rubbing off on him. Something about the air told him to walk, not run, and to avoid any sudden moves.

They decided to wait at the bottom of a wide stone staircase, set in the hill opposite the camp. The steps seemed to lead into a cave. Farkas guessed this was the entrance to the island ruin.

Miel finally stopped rifling through the Reachmen's things and returned to her group, and then they all went over to meet the twins.

"Hail, Companions," she said.

"Hail," Farkas replied, uncertain. Vilkas said the same.

She gave each of them a stiff handshake, pulling back before Farkas's hand could linger.

She was different. The light in her eyes had dimmed, grown cold. There was no trace of warmth or teasing in her voice. Her arms were crossed. She didn't smile. She regarded them blankly at first, but Farkas saw flashes of anger, sadness, and disappointment. Then, just a look of waiting.

He hated that look. It was the look of someone who was upset with him for reasons he didn't know.

The rest of the group made their own greetings, and Bee introduced them. Delphine and Esbern the Blades. Maria of Granite Hill, also known as Maria Deadeye. Hafiz at-Yashar the medic.

Farkas guessed they didn't know who he, his brother, and their leader were to each other. That was the reason she was so distant and formal, he guessed. He hoped.

Bee's expression softened a bit when she named the twins, and she considered the next thing to say. "I owe these two my life."

Cries of shock and surprise erupted from the group, but she refused to give further details. "Thank you," she added. Formal, but sincere.

Maria and Hafiz remained suspicious, confused by her demeanor.

"Time is fleeting, Dragonborn," Delphine said. "I don't like us all standing out here in the open like this. We should go inside. The Companions, are they joining us?"

Miel laughed derisively. "You deem them trustworthy, Delphine? You?"

Delphine nodded at them. "They've stopped by the Sleeping Giant many times over the years. And you sent Vilkas to ask for the attic room. You wouldn't have sent him if you didn't trust him."

"That's true. I wouldn't have."

Farkas got the feeling that she meant something else, and his confusion mounted. "We — we planned to meet you in Rorikstead," he stammered. He looked to Vilkas for some explanation and saw that his brother was stewing with some sudden understanding. This was not how he imagined their reunion would go.

Miel sighed. "Well, you're here now. Come along, then," she said. "Maybe there'll be a moment to talk inside."

They climbed up the wide flight of stone steps and approached the mouth of the cave. Miel led the way, followed by the Blades, then the soldiers. The twins, feeling unwanted, brought up the rear.

"She knows," Vilkas muttered low.  
  
Farkas felt the blood drain from his face.

"How?"

It was impossible. They had been careful. There were no witnesses, like Kodlak had said. She had been unconscious; she never saw them change. Did they leave some clue? Did some Imperial spy tell her the truth?

"I feel it in my gut, Farkas. It's over."

No.

He could see his brother calculating how high to rebuild the walls in his mind already, but Farkas wanted to talk. He longed to brush the rest of the team aside and speak to Bee alone. He could explain. He could make her understand.

"Shh," she whispered. "Forsworn."

Maria the archer quietly dispatched the guard, but the Briarheart warrior in the rear of the cave was another matter. Still, she got a few arrows in him before Miel ran him through with her blades.

"The General is going to kill me," the medic moaned.

"Quit whining, Hafiz," she said. "I told you. I'm fine. The operation worked."

Operation? Worry thickened Farkas's thoughts. Of course, anyone would have needed an operation in her condition, but she was the Dragonborn. She was all right now. Wasn't she?

They pushed past the Briarheart's chamber and went deeper into the cave. Carved stone ruins jutted out from a massive rock wall. There was a bridge waiting to be lowered, but no sign of a lever or switch.

"I've never seen carvings like this," Vilkas said.

"Akaviri," Esbern replied. He launched into a small lecture on the different relief styles, but Delphine gently quieted him. She directed his attention to Miel, who was standing in front of three carved pillars. The old man suggested how to move them.

"What are we doing here, exactly?" Farkas asked.

Miel let out a half-hearted "Ha!" The Blades exchanged looks, and the soldiers looked uncomfortable. Esbern turned back to the twins.

"What do you know about Alduin?"

* * *

  
Vilkas sank into a chair and stared at Alduin's Wall. Bee had gotten into an argument with Delphine and stalked off to explore the temple with the other soldiers. Farkas was sitting close by with his head in his hands.

At any other time, Vilkas would have liked nothing more than to hear Esbern expound on Akaviri relief sculpture, but he felt as though he was hearing the old man's words from underwater.

He studied the last panel of the wall. The figure of the Last Dragonborn was a sinewy, barrel-chested man with a tower shield. Surely, they were looking for someone like that. There had to be some kind of mistake. Surely, Miel was not, as Esbern had said, meant to "contend with Alduin at the end of time".

"Are you sure?" he asked aloud.

Esbern sputtered. "Well, of course I'm sure; Akaviri history has been part of my life's work, and I'm certain the sculptors began to adopt the Nordic style sometime in the age of — "

"No, I mean, are you sure it's her? Are you sure she's the Last Dragonborn, that this is truly her fate and not some other's?"

Understanding and pity lined Esbern's face. "To tell the truth, I am not. We don't know if there is some other Dragonborn out there, waiting to discover their power, or already using it and fleeing as far away from this path as possible. What I do know is that Miel is the one who is here, now, and that makes her the best hope we've got."

There was the sound of Miel clearing her throat, and Esbern nearly dropped his torch.

"My apologies, Dragonborn, I didn't mean — "

"It's all right," she said calmly. She unsheathed a black sword with the thinnest blade Vilkas had ever seen, and she held it up to the brazier light. "Look, lads, I found a sword."

She then patted a helmet that she held under her arm. "I also found this beautiful armor. Do you think Lydia would like it? I feel I owe her a visit and possibly a gift."

"Er, now, Dragonborn, that's a piece of historical — "

"Are you sure you can't decipher from this mural the name of the shout the Tongues used?"

Esbern blinked. "No, I'm afraid you'll definitely need to speak with the Greybeards. But that armor you're holding — and that sword, I — "

"I'll take care of it. Thank you, Esbern." Her tone was so imperious, Esbern was struck dumb. To the twins, she simply said, "Come on. Found a place for us to talk."

Silently, they followed her up the steps of the temple, until they emerged outside, in a courtyard. Vilkas had only seen the general shape of it from the top of the Eyrie. It was overgrown with weeds, but a sense of its old beauty remained in the sprawl. The delicate slope of the Akaviri structures invited a feeling of openness and balance. The view of the valley rising around them was unparalleled. The moons and stars shone overhead, in perfect place for a romantic conversation. If only this was the time.

Miel set the sword and helmet atop a stone and stood taking the scene in with some wonder. Farkas kept a few paces behind, silently waiting, wishing she would speak, but Vilkas decided to gather some dead branches for a fire. When the kindling began to burn, she came over and undid her bedroll.

"We passed a dormitory on the way out," Vilkas noted. "Are you sleeping in the open tonight?"

Miel frowned. "Too dark in there. Ceiling feels heavy and low. I need air," she said quietly. "And I don't want to share a room with Delphine."

She then reached into her pack and pulled out a bottle of wine. "Found it in the Forsworn camp," she said, handing it to Vilkas to uncork.

Thank the gods, he thought. But they drank in silence for several minutes, all staring at the fire or at Miel in thought.

She pulled off her gloves, undid her leather chestpiece, and breathed in relief as her shirt hung loose around her. She then began to peel off the wrappings around her palms.

Vilkas gasped, and Farkas swore, but they knew better than to ask a fellow fighter about their scars. They had some idea of how she had come by them besides. Vilkas felt a surge of anger. Farkas quickly apologized for the outburst. Each brother yearned to do more, to cover her hands with kisses and pull her into an embrace, but an apology seemed safest.

"It's all right," she said quietly. "Hafiz likes to fret, but if not for the scars, it's as though nothing happened." Her gaze went to the fire. "I know, of course. I'll always know. I actually told the healers to leave the scars. Otherwise, it feels somewhat unfair."

Farkas took a pull from the bottle and then passed it on to Vilkas. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Miel shook her head. She looked haunted. "I don't know if I ever will."

The sounds of the Karth River running echoed from below the cliffs, and in the old garden, luna moths and torchbugs began to emerge. The three by the fire rooted around in their packs, producing a meager dinner of military rations, pieces of jerky, and handfuls of fruit and nuts. Vilkas regretted not filching anything from the Briarheart's room earlier. At least there was a second bottle of wine.

Miel kept her silence. There had been a lot of waiting that afternoon while she and Esbern worked out the temple's traps and puzzles, so Maria — adopted by human farmers, hence her non-orcish name — had apprised the twins of their doings in Riften, as well as the Legion's progress in the war. There was little to talk about now that didn't touch on something Miel might not want to bring up. She had not actually said anything about their lycanthropy yet. So, Vilkas and Farkas waited some more.

"I thought I'd feel different when I saw you again," Miel finally said. "I do, a little, but — " She clutched at her chest and swallowed. "I look at you, and I just see you. I can't imagine you being anything else. Is it only because you're in the forms I know? The ones you used to win me over?"

Vilkas snorted, handing her back the bottle. There was no point in hiding. "Our other forms are less charming," he said.

"Ha!"

Farkas was fidgeting with anxiety. After all that time fretting over whether to tell her, he was the one wary of discussing it further.

"Which one of you opened the box and got me out?" Miel asked.

Vilkas made a small wave of the hand, and she nodded.

"And which one of you killed Rulindil? Um. Thalmor Justiciar with light hair and a beard?"

The brothers traded looks, but neither could confirm. Farkas rubbed the back of his neck.

"Bee, we weren't exactly — what's the word?"

"Discriminating," Vilkas said.

"Right. Discriminating, that night."

She looked at him thoughtfully, then sighed.

"I suppose it doesn't really matter," she said, "though it might be nice to know whom to thank." She traced circles on the back of one hand with the other as she spoke, and Vilkas gained an inkling of who Rulindil had been.

"The three of us are the only ones who left the spot alive," he assured her. She nodded; she already knew.

"It feels a bit silly to talk about this, given what we just learned inside." She pointed at the temple doors with the bottle before passing it on. "World about to be eaten, fate of all life on my shoulders, and all. But, I want something easy to deal with right now. Comparatively easy, anyway."

Vilkas smiled to himself. Was that an attempt at a joke? She was upset — who wouldn't be, with all her burdens? — but she was sharing a fire and a bottle. Some part of her was now deadened or locked away, but her wit was intact. That was good.

"And of all the people I can talk to right now, still better you than anyone else I brought with me," she continued.

Farkas drank.

"I've had a week or so to think about this," she then said quietly. "I think I understand why you didn't tell me. But, it still hurts."

Vilkas looked her in the eyes. "Neither of us wanted to hurt you," he said. She broke their gaze and looked up at the sky, at the rocks, at the torchbugs. "We were afraid of driving you away, or worse."

Farkas ran a hand over his face. "How did you find out?" he asked.

Miel told them how Vilkas's slip-up the night before the party led to the official report that set her mind spinning. Once the possibility entered her thoughts, clue after clue resurfaced, threading a line all the way to her own sighting of Farkas in the Pale. Vilkas stewed over their negligence.

"That _was_ you in the Pale, wasn't it?" she asked.

Farkas hung his head. "Yes." He swallowed. "We actually went all the way there to be _away_ from people. Aela had a cave contract. I left the cave to look for deer and picked up the bear's scent. And yours."

Miel's eyes widened. "My scent?"

He bit his cheek. "People, ah, smell the best, to a werewolf. Dragons, it turns out, also smell amazing. People with dragon blood — " Farkas caught a warning look from Vilkas and shut himself up.

"Sweet Kyne above," she breathed. Her fingers flew to the curve of her neck and shoulder — a favorite tender spot for biting — and her face grew crimson. Vilkas wasn't sure whether to laugh or to strangle his brother. "Do you — do you hunt people? Often?"

"If it's some sort of emergency that requires more force," Vilkas replied carefully, "or if there's a contract that's somewhere no one can see and whose results no one will question, we'll take advantage of the beast form. It was given as a boon to the Circle, so we do use it as part of our work."

"But, we've never hunted people for sport," Farkas added quickly, "never to — "

"To eat?"

Both brothers denied it. Still, they knew what question came next.

"Have you never eaten someone anyway?"

Farkas shifted uncomfortably. Vilkas considered his next words as his brother handed him the bottle. If her expression wasn't enough, he could tell from her heartbeat that she was trying to stay calm; he had to do his best to help her along.

"Every lycanthrope, every pack has its principles," he said. "We've all trained ourselves to resist that temptation. All of us in the Circle. When we were newly made, we — we made mistakes. But, since then, we've only ever given in out of emergency."

Miel's face contorted with shock and disgust. Finally, the very look they had expected.

"What sort of emergency — "

"Feeding gives a werewolf strength, makes the transformation last longer," Vilkas continued. He kept his tone steady, matter-of-fact. "So, if there are situations where we absolutely need our power to last — say, if we are grossly outnumbered, and we need to clear some spot near a northwestern keep without being identified, without dying, long enough to carry a body somewhere safe — we will feed on what comes to hand."

Miel blanched. He passed her the wine, and she took a long pull.

"Congratulations," she whispered. "I'm sufficiently distracted from Alduin for now."

He looked at Farkas then. His brother's expression had grown mournful, resigned. There was no question, no going back for them anymore.

Miel lay on top of the bedroll and stared up at the sky. She began rubbing her forehead with her fingertips, and Vilkas's eyes couldn't help following the scars in the firelight. He knew she didn't scar easily in the first place, so for these to have formed at all — however she felt about them now, he was glad he and Farkas had not discriminated.

"I think I need to see this for myself," she then said. "What are you two doing tomorrow? What are you doing in the next few days?"

"Days?" Farkas asked.

"Yes. I need to go back to High Hrothgar to ask about this Shout. The Blades are going to stay here, and I'm sending Hafiz and Maria back to their commanders." She sighed. "I can't believe I'm asking this, but would you travel with me, at least to Ivarstead? We'll stop in Whiterun so I can tell Balgruuf that Rorikstead is safe again, I'll check on the girls, and then we can find somewhere to camp so you can — you can show me what it is you do."

Farkas looked panicked. "This is a bad idea, Bee," he said. "We've never changed with a normal human around. We don't — I don't know if I'd — "

"So far, you've managed to not kill me twice. You've even saved my life. I think that proves I'd be safe with you," she said. "Besides, I'm not a normal human myself."

Vilkas studied her face. "Why do you need to see this?" he asked.

"Because you've hidden it from me long enough!"

Her voice rang across the courtyard, and Vilkas had to listen again for other presences. So far, no one had come looking for the Dragonborn yet, but he had not forgotten the soldiers' suspicion.

Miel closed her eyes and took a breath. "Because," she continued, "some part of me still can't help seeking your company, in case you haven't noticed. I'd like to be able to make up my mind before the world ends." She laughed weakly and sat up. "Unwise, as far as priorities go, but here I am."

She covered her eyes as she continued, but the slight shake in her voice told enough. "Like I said, you're the only ones I can talk to. You and the priest in Dawnstar, I suppose, and I already know what he'd say to me about love and forgiveness and so on. I don't have the time nor the patience to look for new friends, at the moment."

Vilkas felt a tiny hope budding in his chest. With everything on her plate, this was good enough. A glance at Farkas told him his brother had more than caught on; he would water this shoot of hope with his own blood if he had to.

"In the time I've had to think about this, about how things have been between us, I've remembered more good than bad," Miel added. "But, if we're to go on — for however long we have left on Nirn — if I'm to even consider it, I'll need to know who you are."

Farkas hesitated. "We can't go with you to Whiterun," he then said. "Kodlak hasn't called us home yet. But, if we take the southern approach to Ivarstead, there are places to camp. To hunt."

Vilkas caught his eye and nodded. He, too, thought this was a bad idea. But, she had made her demand, and it was always safer in the pack.

There was also one more thing they could do.

"If we do this, you need to prepare," he said.

Her brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"While you're in Whiterun," he answered, "have Adrianne coat your sword in silver while you're talking to Balgruuf." She paled, but he pressed on. He thought of weapons he had taken from Silver Hand in the past. "The fuller or the ridge will do, if it's going to affect the edge of the blade. Or, get a bit of wolfsbane oil. Farkas and I can usually keep each other in check, but we don't want to take any more risks. Not with you."

Miel nodded, though her face showed disbelief. "All right."

The wine was all gone now, and the stars had moved quite a bit. Vilkas got to his feet. If they were leaving together the following day, he and Farkas needed to retrieve the rest of their things from the Eyrie.

"Do you want us to return here?" he asked.

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek. "I think I want to be alone tonight," she said after a while. "If you want to come back here, you can see if you'll tolerate Esbern's snoring downstairs. Or, we can just meet outside the Old Hroldan for breakfast."

"We'll bring you all breakfast," Farkas offered. "It's the least we can do for not being any help today."

Miel's mouth twitched in a slight, fleeting smile. "You've been some help," she said quietly.

"You'll always have our help, Miel," Vilkas said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Whether I want it or not, right?" she replied, her tone dry.

Her expression grew serious then, and she stared at them so piercingly that Vilkas struggled to keep her gaze.

"You two showed up in Solitude when I didn't expect it. I didn't tell you where I'd be today, but you showed up here at Karthspire, too. I can't shake this feeling that our fates are somehow tied together," she said softly.

Vilkas shuddered. Something in her voice rang of more doom for him than Esbern's reading of the prophecy.

"Because of Alduin?" Farkas asked.

"I suppose."

"Because of Kyne," Vilkas blurted out. "Kyne and Hircine."

The glow of realization lit up Miel's face, and he had a sinking feeling.

"Oh," she whispered. "This next hunt is definitely a bad idea." She smiled in a way Vilkas had never seen before. It unnerved him completely.

"We won't do it, then," Farkas said.

"Oh, no, no, Farkas. We are definitely hunting together now."

Vilkas felt the beast in his blood rising at the challenge, and he began to pull his brother away. Abruptly, he bid Miel good night. He knew a death wish when he saw it.


	20. Chapter 20

Walking through Whiterun felt like descending into a dream, though Miel was wary of finding it pleasant. Braith and Lars were quarreling again in the street when she passed through the gates. The sun was setting, and people were laying aside tools, putting away their wares, and so on, to rest at the end of another long day. Parents began calling children inside, innkeepers lit their lamps, and traders hurried their customers through their final transactions. Miel herself caught Adrianne at the very last minute and wouldn't get her sword back until the morning.

Life in Whiterun simply continued, its people completely oblivious that they were living in the end times.

"Mama!"

Plump little arms threw themselves around her waist, and Miel looked around to find Lucia's delighted face.

"This is perfect! You're just in time!"

"In time? For what?"

Giggling, Lucia pulled her toward Breezehome. Miel noticed she had a basket full of wildflowers hanging from her arm, and she remembered.

"Ta-da! Happy Flower Day!"

The house was hung with garlands of spring blooms. At the dining table, Sofie and Mila Valentia were weaving crowns; Sofie already had one in her hair. Breezehome smelled of roasting vegetables and rabbit.

"Lydia let us have a party, Mama. I hope it's all right," Lucia said. "No! No, bad Tirdas!"

Miel laughed as the puppy lunged at her knees, its flower collar barely hanging from its neck in shreds. Sofie leapt up from the table herself to greet her.

"Oh, we didn't know you were coming," the older girl fretted. "I hope there's enough food."

Miel glanced at the hearth and assured Sofie it would be fine, though she would chop some extra vegetables herself and dig a bit of something out of a salting barrel to be sure. It would be good to have a simple task, surrounded by the girls' chatter. She pulled her gloves off so that she could wash.

Lucia gasped.

"Mama, what happened?"

Miel winced. Immediately, she saw her hands through the children's eyes. "I got into a very bad fight," she said simply. "I'd rather not talk about it. Today is about your party!"

The children stared, uncertain, until Miel's eyes lighted on the table. There was a bright and shiny tin whistle, painted with Glenumbra's stripes and nestled in a flower wreath.

"Where did you get that?"

Sofie smiled. "Grandpapa sent it. He sent a lot of things, including clothes to wear for dinner! That's how we found out about Flower Day."

Miel softened at the mention of her father. One day, she hoped, Guillaume's commander would let him come visit and meet the grandchildren he was successfully spoiling from afar. Or, perhaps she would one day take them out of Skyrim and show them where she had grown up. Would they like Camlorn? She wondered.

The thought of time drew out her melancholy. _One day_ , provided she ensured there would be more days.

"Mama?"

"It's all right, Lucia. I just miss my papa. But, I'm glad to hear of him." She blinked away her tears and began to work on the extra food. "What have you lot been up to, hmm?"

The girls soon resumed their talking, and Miel warmed at their laughter and children's gossip.

When the food was ready, they changed into the blouses Guillaume had sent — even Mila, because he had sent the girls two each, and Lucia didn't mind sharing. Miel was a little miffed that he had forgotten his own daughter, but she dug up an embroidered tunic somewhere in her dresser and belted it over some fitted trousers. Lydia, out with her "guard friend" again, was nowhere to be seen.

Seeing the girls dressed like the children of High Rock made Miel long for her former home, but it was lovely to be here with them, now. The girls would have passed for any rosy-cheeked Breton lasses, crowned and beaming on blessed Flower Day. Sofie's appearance in particular gave Miel a pang. In a few more years, the girl would come of age, and the whole world would open before her.

Miel merely had to make sure the world would still be there.

Mila shyly offered her a crown for her hair as she joined the table. They ate their meal, and Lucia's rabbit was a pleasant surprise.

"She's a better cook than Lydia," Sofie said.

"I think you're better than me," Miel said, half-joking.

The youngest grew bashful. "I learned the spices from Uncle Farkas," she said.

Miel had a moment to choose her reaction, and she laughed softly. "Then, you'll definitely be a better cook," she said. "Lovely. I'll be able to rest more when I come home again."

Sofie knit her brows. "Are you going to stay long?"

"Just the night, sweet one. I have important things to take care of, things that will let me take care of you. Besides, we saw each other at the start of the month."

Lucia pouted, stabbing at her meat with her fork. "That was forever ago."

Miel did her best to look apologetic. The start of First Seed had been the week of the twins' birthday. It truly did feel like forever ago.

The conversation turned back to the girls' own interests, and Miel paid dutiful attention, storing up whatever she could learn about her children in the short time they had. Her heart twisted, wistful, at their innocence. Sofie seemed bored with her apprenticeship already, but it was clearly doing the girl good, to learn a useful skill that might one day grant her real independence. Lucia lately spent afternoons reading in the temple garden and watching the healers, though she was still too young to properly study. Both girls were thriving, healthy, and that was all Miel could ask for.

"We got the package you and the uncles sent from Solitude," Lucia piped up. "I really liked the book."

"You're welcome."

"How are the uncles?" Sofie asked then. Mila snickered into her cup. "They haven't come back to Whiterun yet."

Miel fought to keep her expression steady. "They're fine. I believe they'll be out in the wilds for a little bit longer, but they'll be back." She cleared her throat. "Want to learn some tunes for the whistle?"

She regretted the suggestion almost as soon as Lucia pressed the instrument into her hands. Miel had not even thought of playing music again. Her lined fingers seemed to mar the simple prettiness of the bright paint, and she grew conscious of the girls' watching eyes. 

"You know what? Follow my feet. I'll teach you some of our country dances."

Sofie gasped excitedly. Quickly, they cleared some space before the hearth. Miel recalled the steps and took the girls through them, and then she lifted the whistle to her lips and began to play the lilting, cheerful melodies that every Glenumbran knew from childhood. The rest of the evening passed in stomping, spinning, clapping, and shrieks of laughter. In her mind's eye, Miel saw Flower Days past, the inn lined with clapping patrons as Guillaume and Agda took their turn, Little Bee swinging between them.

Finally, the candle clock melted low, and Miel declared bedtime had come. It was too late to send Mila home, though they would have walked with her. Instead, the girls piled their beddings in the center of their little room, and Miel knew they would be talking and giggling long after she bid them good night.

In her own bed, Miel sighed, filled with both happiness and longing. Her temple had loved Flower Day, too; any excuse for decoration and frolic, really, brought a Dibellan joy. Tonight, the cheery notes of the whistle, the colors of the children's clothes, and their laughter most of all brought to Breezehome a simpler time in her life.

"Bless my father, Milady," she murmured, her eyes growing heavy. It seemed he had sent her gifts after all.

* * *

  
Orgnar nodded as she entered the Sleeping Giant Inn. "They all right?" Miel asked.

The new innkeeper shrugged. He had not yet decided what to do with Delphine's secret cellar, so Miel took advantage of her acquaintance with his former employer and asked him to let the twins stay there for the night. Orgnar didn't seem to care either way. If he had any criminal impulses, she thought, he would find a more enterprising use for the space — storage for fenced goods, a moon sugar laboratory, a clandestine meeting spot, even just a still for bootleg spirits, stuff to really put a giant to sleep. But, the man seemed content to continue running a mediocre inn for the time being, though he didn't bat an eye at her request.

The cellar smelled faintly of herbs and tallow, and Miel found both men in their breeches. Farkas was browsing idly through the weapons Delphine had left behind. Vilkas was shaving by a washbasin, eyeing his reflection in a polished platter. The sight of them stirred something in Miel, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. Her mind was undecided on what they were to her now, but her body, apparently, saw only men she enjoyed.

Farkas raised his brow at her as a smirk appeared through his now trim beard. Vilkas had his back to her, but she thought she saw his razor pause.

"Spare me, Dibella, please," she muttered under her breath.

Slowly, Farkas approached, and she struggled to find somewhere else to look as his body took up her field of view. He took the sacks she was carrying and then simply stood there, his bare chest inches away from her face. Miel felt his eyes boring into her as she desperately stared at the cellar wall.

He cleared his throat. "You should know, since you asked us to be open about this, that our senses detect all kinds of things."

Miel's eyes widened before she squeezed them shut. She willed the inn to collapse on them all, but it was no use. A low groan escaped her.

"We hear your heart beat faster," Farkas said. "We hear your breathing shift. I heard what you said just now."

Vilkas laughed softly. "The air around you seems to change with your mood," he added. "It's as though we can smell — "

"All right, I get it!" she cried. "Please put something on already." Betrayed by her own body. "This is unfair."

Farkas laughed, backed away towards the table, and began taking things out of the sacks. Miel had gone to Jorrvaskr to fetch them a change of clothes and armor.

"You carried all this to Riverwood by yourself?" he asked.

She huffed. "I borrowed a horse and rode it here with Lydia; she's riding back to Whiterun now."

Vilkas wiped his face on a cloth, turned to face her, and crossed his arms. Miel struggled to not admire the lines they made from his elbows to his shoulders. She thought for a moment to focus on new scars — from the arrows lodged on the night of the party, she realized — but they were too impressive to be of help to her, either.

"Did you see Kodlak? Did he speak to you?" he asked.

"Ysmir's beard," Farkas interrupted. "Did Tilma let you into my room?"

"No, it was Skjor who fetched your things. I talked to Kodlak in his study."

"And?" Vilkas ran a hand across his newly shaven jaw. "What did you talk about?"

Miel took a breath, grateful for something else to think about besides the way stubble felt against her skin. "He was not happy that I knew," she recalled. "But, I told him the Circle has nothing to fear from me. I told him that you transformed to save me, and now I owe you a life debt. I think that was enough for him to consider." That and, she suspected, an old father's inability to stay angry at his favored sons.

"I didn't tell him what we're planning tonight, just that you're escorting me to Ivarstead," she added. "He said to tell you, you can come home right afterward, but there will be a condition."

"What is it?" Farkas asked.

Miel shrugged. "He didn't say. I suppose it's not for my ears. I'm not one of you," she said pointedly.

Vilkas joined his brother at the big table and began putting on a shirt. "Did you tell him you were thinking of resigning from the Legion?"

Kodlak had not mentioned her joining the Companions this time, and Miel had thought better than to bring it up. "No. I suspect he's changed his mind about offering me a place, since being in your lives has made a mess of them." 

"It's us being in your life that's made the mess."

"Thanks, Vilkas."

He scowled. "I mean that all the mistakes in Haafingar were ours. They stemmed from our own choices. He knows not to blame you."

Miel shrugged once more. Not all of the mistakes had been theirs. For one thing, she never wanted spiked cordial ever again.

"It's not just that," she said softly. "Remember, I haven't made up my mind about you. I don't know if I'd want to be around you and your — pack so often."

"Can't take the sight of all this anymore?" Farkas teased.

She glared. Now that he knew he could still get to her, he was not going to back down, was he?

That was what confused her the most: that she could speak with them — the twins, and even Kodlak, Skjor, and Aela — as though nothing was different, as though they were any other people. The breakfast at Karthspire had been awkward for her, watching the twins get to know Hafiz and Maria through polite, even cheerful conversation before the two soldiers split off for Castle Dour. _You don't really know what they are_ , she had wanted to scream. _You don't know what they can do_.

Perhaps it could be that simple, however. Perhaps being a werewolf was just some facet of their lives, the way being Dragonborn was for her. Having a power she tried to use judiciously, wanting to be seen as more than that power — that was something she understood. "I want you to know me," Farkas had once said.

But, all she had ever heard of lycanthropy before was that it was a curse, a disease — a blessing only to those who worshipped Hircine. Neither Farkas nor Vilkas were particularly religious, it was true, but Vilkas had called it a boon. Kodlak had admitted to practically raising them for it, though the old man seemed to regret that now. The idea of her friends being marked from youth by a Daedric Prince alarmed her. She'd had her own nightmarish brush with a Prince already.

Yet Hircine, from what she knew, was not as malevolent as the others. She knew from her studies that thinking of Aedra and Daedra as "good" and "evil" was too simple, merely that as a would-be priestess, her allegiance had to be with "Divines". That path was far, far behind her now. And when Miel thought of Hircine in opposition to Kyne, a different, darker tendril of an idea worked its way into her heart.

It was Kyne who had gifted humankind with the Voice, whose glory Miel had promised Arngeir and Froki to uphold, and whose hand she thought she felt whenever the ferocity of battle consumed her. It was Kyne and all the other gods who were supposed to be watching her, preserving her body and soul for the ultimate battle with Alduin over time itself.

Where had they been, when Rulindil had smashed her hands to bits? Why had it been werewolves, abominations to the Mother of Beasts and Men, who had saved her? Where were the Divines when poison racked her body with fever and agony, as the healers sliced into her fingers and coaxed her bones back together, over and over until they were whole? How was it that Vaermina had spoken directly into her thoughts, but for the Eight or the Nine she had to trust in priests, intuition, and signs?

As for her purpose, Esbern had said she was simply the one who was there now, their best hope. What if there actually was someone better — the fair, strapping, homegrown, blue-eyed son so many Nords wished she were instead? What if this was not her path at all?

What if Farkas and Vilkas could show her a way to be free of it completely?

"We're ready."

"Bee?"

Miel looked up. The twins were dressed now, but only in shirts and trousers. She frowned.

"I hauled two sets of steel armor down here," she complained. "You're not going to wear it?"

Vilkas smirked despite himself as he hoisted the sack over his shoulder. "Werewolves don't need, or wear, armor," he said.

She fought back the urge to scream.

"All right," she said flatly. "Let's go hunting."

* * *

  
They set themselves up for the night under an overhang on a ridge, somewhere in the Jerall foothills south of where the Imperial camp had been, before the troops moved on Treva's Watch. Bee was lucky and caught a wild hen for dinner, and Farkas turned the bird over the fire while she wandered the edges of their camp. Vilkas went in the other direction to inspect the trees before returning to brood by the fire.

As Farkas watched Bee circle, he couldn't help thinking of how different this was from their first hunting trip. He missed the sound of her laughter, the flush of her cheeks, the twinkle in her eye. On the trek here, he had tested her with jokes, some light teasing, but though he sensed she wanted to take the bait, she purposely resisted, and he finally left her to her thoughts. Her gaze kept returning to the Throat of the World, reminding them that this was only a brief stop before she had to go on her way.

Bee was supposed to fight Alduin, the World-Eater, the dread dragon from the old tales, and Farkas still didn't know what to think. He believed she could do anything; he knew the Dragonborn was destined for legends — but this was Bee. He was more afraid for her now than he'd been with the Thalmor. It was unlikely that he and Vilkas would be able to meddle and save her this time (though he had already resolved to try). All the heroes of the tales met their destinies eventually, and so often alone.

He tried to smile as she ambled back toward them over the grass. Why couldn't they have stayed by Greenspring forever, splashing around in the shallows and warming up in the tent at night? Hunters lived well enough that way. They didn't have to think about secrets or honor, or the end of time.

"Is the hen cooked?" Bee asked.

"Give it some time to cool," he replied. "Vilkas has to show you a tree." There were closer things to worry about now.

"A tree?"

His brother stood with a sigh and pointed to a young oak, among the trees below the ridge. "Do you think you can climb that?" Vilkas asked.

She stood next to him and looked. "I think so. Why?"

Farkas cut the bird into quarters. "The branches will take your weight, but not ours," he said. "You're going to wait up there while Vilkas changes."

Bee looked back at him and frowned. "We were supposed to hunt together. How am I supposed to do or see anything up there?"

Vilkas shook his head. They had talked about this while waiting in that cellar, but Farkas knew his brother still had doubts.

"I am not — a calm person," Vilkas began. "It means I'm not a calm wolf. And I'll be hungry, because one game hen between us is hardly a dinner. It's best if you stay out of reach until Farkas is sure I'm safe."

Farkas, for his part, had a bit more confidence after what they had accomplished at Steepfall. Bee had said it herself: they had managed to not kill her twice now. Still, that didn't mean they would be reckless this third time.

"If Vilkas is safe, then I'm safe. We keep each other in check," he said. "I'll call you down then so you can watch me change."

He took a breath as he handed her the bird's leg. That would be the last thing for her, he felt. It was one thing to know someone was a werewolf; it was another to watch them become one. It wasn't pretty. This was going to scare her off for good.

Bee sat down and picked at her piece of the hen with her fingers. "And if you're not safe?"

Farkas sighed. "Then, you're not to come down until we change back. You can't be anywhere near us. I hope you find a comfortable branch."

She frowned. "I could probably take the both of you in a fight, you know."

He laughed then, though not because he doubted her. She only reminded him of the day she learned how sensitive a taller boy's shins could be to a well-aimed kick.

"I know," he said. "But, a couple of hungry wolves who like a challenge might be dumb enough to try you, all right? If I say so, just stay up there until we're done. Maybe I'll bring you a rabbit."

They ate in silence. Farkas couldn't help eyeing the bones at her mouth as she stripped them with her teeth.

"Gods, you're as bad as Tirdas," she muttered.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Hungry."

He winced as Bee tossed the bones onto the fire. Then, she tipped her head back, exposing her neck as she washed her meal down with ale from Orgnar's counter.

Vilkas shook his head once more. "Are you sure you want to do this, Miel? It's not too late to change your mind," he said.

She sneered as she wiped her mouth. "I already know what you are. Seeing you become so will just be the final touch."

"Exactly," Farkas said quietly.

Her expression softened. Silently, she moved her hand toward his, then seemed to think better of it.

Farkas ached to do more than hold her hand. The time she let them get close had slipped away before they even knew it.

She then asked, "Were you ever going to tell me?" and the regret in his heart only doubled.

"I wanted to," Farkas answered. "I just didn't know how. I didn't want to lose you." Damn it. He took her hand anyway. "You're the best thing that's happened to us since we joined the Circle, Bee. But, that's just it. You happened after."

"So, the lot of you just decide you'll never love anyone after; is that it?"

Vilkas shrugged. "Yes."

"No." Farkas sighed. "I decided nothing. I just — didn't think about it. I tend to sort problems out as they happen."

Bee huffed and pulled back her hand. "I'm sorry to be a problem," she said indignantly.

This got a frustrated groan out of both brothers.

"And if I had joined the Companions, like you asked at the beginning — ?" she prodded. "At what point does a new blood find out about the beast blood? How do you tell someone you plan to make them into one of you?" She swallowed. "Was that what you had in mind for me all along, when you invited me to your hall?"

"Of course not! I just — I just wanted you to be around," Farkas replied.

That had been an idle dream, he knew now. Flirtatious sparring in the yard, mead hall banter by the roaring fire, sneaking down to his room or to the Bannered Mare together — it would have been easy. And when she found out — she was smart; she would have sniffed the truth out even sooner — surely, he would have known exactly what to say. He would not have been afraid; no one ever stayed in Jorrvaskr long enough to get close if the Circle didn't trust them completely, especially after what happened with Krev.

"Nothing prepared us for you, Bee," Vilkas said. "When I joined the Circle, I prepared for a life like the Circle before me: no family but the one of shield-brothers and sisters. And if you'd been one of them from the start — well, perhaps it would have been less of a shock."

Miel snorted. "I'm still an outsider to you, then. After everything we've shared. Everything."

Farkas winced. In a rare moment, his brother was at a loss for what to say.

"We're letting you in now," Farkas said. "The way we should have done months ago. I kept hoping we would find the right time, but — "

"Now, there's no time," she finished. She sighed and gulped down more ale.

Before he could say anything more, Farkas caught the scent of elk on the breeze, and his blood began to churn. Inside, he felt the wolf there, stalking back and forth, famished and ready. _You've talked long enough_ , it seemed to say. _The time has come_.

His hands began to work the laces at his collar as he willed the wolf to wait a little longer. "Got your sword, Bee?" he asked. "Let's see it."

Vilkas began to fidget, and Farkas could tell he was straining against his skin. His brother's heart was pounding in near tandem with his own. Vilkas smelled the elk, too. A buck, healthy and strong — he would give them a good chase, they could tell.

"Faster now," Farkas said. Nervously, Bee unsheathed her blade, and he shivered at the pale shine of its new coating. It would hurt like Oblivion if she ever had to use it.

"What about the wolfsbane?" Vilkas asked. He was pacing now, impatiently tugging at the neck of his shirt.

She hesitated. "I was going to ask Arcadia for it, but it felt strange with Sofie there."

Vilkas shook his head as he yanked off his shirt. "No, no. Not good enough. You have a full quiver, at least? Should have had the arrows tipped."

"Kyne's Peace," Farkas said then. "That Shout from when we last hunted." He grimaced at the memory of her Voice — the sensations of his skull being squeezed by the hand of a giant, his ribs about to snap like a handful of twigs. "It hurts us when you use it," he told her. "Might buy you some time if things go south."

Vilkas was down to his breeches now. "Get in the tree, Bee."

For a moment, she looked as though she would protest, and Farkas thought he would have to toss her into the branches himself. Instead, she sheathed her sword and gathered up her bow.

Before she could step away, he grabbed a strap of her brigandine, by her waist, and pulled her close. He paid no mind when she stiffened as he cupped her face. After this, she wasn't going to let him near her, anyway. He would take in her features while he could.

"Whatever happens, save yourself," he said solemnly, running his thumbs over the bones beneath her eyes. There were such dark circles there, he thought with a pang. "Do whatever it takes. Sword, Shout, magic, whatever. Whatever it takes."

His heart flip-flopped at the small sound of her gasp. She kissed him then, a soft, sweet surprise laced with mead.

Farkas answered with everything he'd held back since Karthspire, and a bit of what he expected to hold back from that night on. He knew in his heart that this was a kiss goodbye. Already, she was not the same woman they had left in the Winking Skeever, and by dawn, in her eyes, they would not be the same to her, either.

"Farkas."

His brother's simple plea ended the kiss, and he let her go. Bee stopped to give Vilkas the same farewell, paying no mind to his nakedness now, and then she headed for the oak tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought we could all use a little break from all the gloom, though of course things are still hard on our trio.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the comments and kudos! They help me to keep going. :)


	21. Chapter 21

The oak was harder to climb than it had looked from the campsite. Miel had barely pulled herself onto the lowest branch when she heard Vilkas cry out in pain behind her. Struggling, she climbed higher, until her view was level with the ridge. Where was he? Her eyes had slowly adjusted to the dark, but there were too many leaves in the way.

An almighty roar shook the night, forcing a shriek from her as she lost her grip. She fell forward through the branches, scraping her forearms against the bark and the twigs. She only just managed to grab hold of something before she left the tree completely, but one of her arms began to sting.

Farkas groaned in exasperation. "Why in Nine names do I smell your blood, Bee?!" he bellowed. "Get higher! Get up there! He's coming for you!"

Her blood ran cold. She heard heavy feet bounding through the grass but saw nothing, until silver eyes appeared below the branches. There was a slight breeze as the wolf swiped at her dangling feet. In her panicked scramble to pull herself higher, Miel lost her hold entirely and fell.

The wolf leapt out of the way, and she at least had the presence of mind to land properly, sparing her ankles and legs. She then backed against the trunk as he began to circle her and the oak.

So much for staying out of reach.

This was Vilkas, hackles raised, long nose wrinkled in a snarl, fat strings of drool hanging from his dagger-like teeth. Sleek dark fur covered his massive body. He growled at her, and Miel heard a whimper escape her own throat. Behind him, she could see Farkas, still a man, rushing to close the distance. He yelled at Vilkas to get away, but the wolf paid him no mind. He crouched, ready to pounce.

"KAAN DREM!"

The Shout erupted from her, almost unbidden.

This time, she paid closer attention as Farkas clutched at his sides. His expression contorted, a mix of fear, pain, and also anger, as he dropped to his hands and knees. Vilkas shrank back from the oak with a startled yelp, his ears flat, but he continued to watch her with his teeth bared. Once more, he began to circle her, more warily perhaps, but also with even more intention.

"Damn it all," Farkas cried, "draw your sword! I'm — "

He doubled over with a roar of pain. Dark fur sprang from his back, his arms, his legs. Miel heard snapping and tearing as his body expanded. His face and ears stretched, grotesque, until she could no longer recognize him at all, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. Vilkas was now pacing eagerly, watching his brother, the prey under the tree momentarily forgotten.

Farkas the wolf stood at his full, towering height and let out a bloodcurdling howl. Vilkas joined in a note or so higher. Bizarrely, Miel recognized a harmony, even as terror wound its way through her body and gripped her by the bones. Gods, there were two of them now.

Vilkas turned back to her when the chorus ended. Miel readied another Shout, one that would encase him in ice, when Farkas shoved his brother in the shoulder with a clawed hand. 

They jostled, butted heads, and bit one another as they grappled under the oak. They traded growls and angry barks as well as blows. Miel thought to run, but she suspected the sudden movement would only begin a chase in earnest. She felt rooted to the spot.

One of the wolves slammed the other into the tree, and she yelped as she leapt out of the way. Sure enough, she had both their attention now.

The slightly larger wolf — Farkas, she realized somehow — thumped his brother one more time and then approached. Miel could smell his breath and his musk as he nosed the air around her. He seemed to be deciding something, and Vilkas whined impatiently as he drew close behind. Her hand found the hilt of her sword, but there was barely any room to draw it, and her knees felt as though they would buckle beneath her. Slowly, she put up her other hand to shield her face.

Farkas's tongue was wet, rough, and heavy on her scarred palm. He then snuffled at the place where the bark had scraped her, and though it had already healed, he licked that, too.

"What in the — "

Vilkas whined again, and Farkas snarled in reply. But, he stepped back to make room as Vilkas began to sniff at her himself.

Miel found herself laughing in disbelief as Vilkas butted his head against her neck and shoulder. Was this an apology? He was twice her size now and bent over her awkwardly. His tongue darted out at the underside of her chin. He licked from her cheek, over an eye, to the roots of her hair, and she groaned as he snorted in her ear with his wet nose.

"Ugh. Slimy, lads. That's enough." She wiped her face on her sleeve and wondered what to do with her drool-covered hand.

They both sniffed at her now, snouts venturing lower, and she stepped back with a nervous laugh. "Hey now. That's not — "

Farkas huffed happily. If his fangs weren't so threateningly sharp, she might have accepted his look as a smile.

Suddenly, their noses went to the air, and Vilkas bolted away, to where the woods were thicker. Farkas made to follow, but he stopped short to look back at her.

"You want me to go with you?"

From deep among the trees, Vilkas howled. How did he get so far so fast? Farkas howled in response, but still, he waited.

"I can't run like you. But I'll try to follow," she said. "Go on. Go catch your dinner." She could tease now that she was apparently off the menu.

Farkas let out a low growl, and she laughed. Still, however, he refused to budge.

Miel took a breath. She had asked to hunt with them, after all. She found her bow where it had fallen, among the roots of the young oak, and slung it onto her back.

She began to jog, then to run. Farkas would run ahead and then stop to make sure she was following. In truth, she couldn't tell where they were going; her patrols had never taken her to this part of the woods. But, they clearly were on the trail of something. He seemed excited.

After a while, Miel could sense her wolf minder growing anxious to catch up to his brother. Far off, Vilkas howled again.

"Go on!" she urged Farkas. "I'll be all right. Don't hold back on my account."

His silver eyes peered at her between the trees, and for a moment, Miel thought she might have said the wrong thing to a starving werewolf. Then, in the next moment, he was gone, and she was alone.

Miel let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. She could practically hear the blood pounding in her ears.

What in the world was she doing out here? This was madness. For a moment, under the oak, she had thought she would meet her end, crushed by Vilkas's massive jaws. Now, she was tracking werewolves in an unfamiliar forest, to — what? To watch predators chase their prey, to watch them destroy and feast on an animal as animals themselves — for what? Why was this something she needed to see?

She began to head in the direction Farkas had gone. She became painfully aware of the Throat of the World towering behind her, of the next step toward her strange destiny waiting to be taken in the monastery below the peak. Miel was no wolf, but she knew the 7,000 Steps in the dark; she could have gone straight there. She would have been struggling to fall asleep on a stone bed at that very moment. Why did she delay?

A flash of white caught her eye. In the moonlight, between the trees, a great elk regarded her haughtily, holding aloft the proudest, most impressive antlers Miel had ever seen. The handsome creature tossed its head at her and then bounded away.

Miel hesitated. There was a glow about the elk that reminded her of the guardian spirits, of Kyne's sacred trials, yet her gut told her that it was not quite the same. The part of her that had been drawn to hunt with the twins longed to give chase. The part of her that looked to High Hrothgar warned her to stay away, to let it run and fade into the night.

Well, she was here on the ground, not on the mountain, and she thought she could still see the gleam of the elk's hide through the thickets. Miel took her bow in hand.

On and on it led her — for with every step, she believed more strongly that the elk was leading her — deeper into the woods. Miel grew disoriented. Were they still in the Rift? In the Jeralls? Even as her panic mounted over how lost she was now, even as brambles scratched her limbs and branches clawed at her face, the elk captivated her, and she pressed on.

Farkas and Vilkas would find her, she reasoned. They would follow her scent. She would win them this trophy, and they would feast on its flesh. What a surprise that would be, that she would be the one to feed her friends.

She heard them howling, somewhere behind her now, and this time she wasn't afraid.

Finally, the elk stopped in a clearing. It stood next to a long, low rock with a small hollow in its center. Miel's breath caught in her throat at how beautiful the creature was. The moons were bright, it was true, but the elk seemed to give off a soft, pale light of its own.

The elk turned to look at her for a moment, and then it bent its head to nuzzle at the grass. He was giving her the perfect shot, she realized. So, Miel took out an arrow, steadied her aim with a deep breath, and loosed.

The elk stood on its hind legs. Before her eyes, its body stretched; its forelegs elongated into arms, and a clawed hand snatched her arrow out of the air. Only the head of the animal remained, antlers resplendent over the broad shoulders of a man in a kilt of various pelts.

Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt, was standing in the clearing.

He lazily crooked a finger and twirled the point of her arrow against it. The shaft between his hands looked no stronger than a twig.

"Ah," he sighed, "the little drakeling. Do your mama and papa know where you are?"

Miel trembled. "You're — you're speaking to me."

Deep laughter rumbled from his chest. "It's not often my children make friends with someone so — enticing. It's been so long since dragons have stalked Tamriel's woods. Thus, I have taken more of an interest this evening," he intoned.

"Your mother, on the other hand — " he gestured vaguely skyward with her arrow " — she's quite unhappy with the playfellows you've chosen, drakeling. You're quite bold to consort with them here, in the shadow of her tower. But you, little dragon, are always welcome to my grounds."

Miel heard heavy feet on the grass and leaf litter, then panting and a few sharp barks. The twins emerged from the woods behind her. Both of them smelled strongly of game and blood. One of them began to whine and dropped the leg of a deer at her feet. The other paced anxiously, placing himself between her and the Lord of the Hunt. Would they protect her from someone they were bound to serve? Or, would they finally turn on her here, under his triumphant gaze?

Hircine turned and went to stand on the other side of the long rock. Still playing with her arrow in one hand, with the other, he pointed with force to the ground at his feet. The twins had no choice but to obey, heads bowed, ears flat, and tails low. They stood on either side of their master now, and Miel's heart sank with dread.

"I know the black quarry you chase, drakeling," the Huntsman continued. "I know of the prize you seek, though you have yet to glimpse its light. And for your mates, you will fight for them to share in it, I know. You will wager your very life in order to clear their path." He stroked one of the twins on the head and scratched between his ears. Farkas, she realized, as he shuddered under the Prince's hand.

"But, even if you succeed, they will never walk that path. Your dear mother won't even let them past her sentry, for they belong to me. They are _my_ sons, you see. Tsk tsk tsk, drakeling. She would never approve."

Miel struggled to make sense of his words. "What are you talking about?" she asked. "What path? What sentry? What does my mother have to do with this?"

Hircine continued as though she had said nothing. His voice took on a tone of mock sorrow. "Ah, and if you fail, then you will be parted from them forever, for you will take your seat among your kind, and my children's place is with theirs. With me. The doors of the hall where you shall dwell are closed to the likes of them."

Vilkas snarled and let out a single bark, as if in protest, but he did not move from his master's side.

"But, _I_ am not so inhospitable, drakeling," Hircine said. "You can join _our_ family, and the three of you can run and bay and feast to your hearts' content. Together, for always."

Slowly, he held her arrow aloft and spun it with a flick of his hand. It lengthened into an ancient spear. The Huntsman grasped Vilkas by the elbow, put the spearpoint to his arm, and sliced it open. The wolf yelped. Thick, dark blood flowed into the hollow of the rock before them.

"Drink, drakeling, and I will make a home for you. All three of you, in my pack. In my realm," Hircine beckoned. "Drink, and you may flee this life. Forget the black devourer. Escape your mother's heavy hand. You shall never have to set foot on her mountain again."

Finally, Miel understood — not everything, but enough. This was it. This was the way off the path the gods had set her. Vilkas whimpered as Hircine released his arm, but Miel looked only at the little pool of blood, shimmering in the light coming off the Huntsman's form. She took a step towards the rock.

"Yes," Hircine urged.

No more working to fight Alduin. No point, then, to the civil war. Miel could take her fate back into her own hands with a little taste of Vilkas's blood and be done. Free.

She looked up at the wolves. Best of all, she would know what to do with her love. She could join Farkas and Vilkas in this life, in this form. Instead of struggling to accept, to understand, she could simply be like them, with them.

Miel studied them now and tried to imagine herself as a wolf: ferocious, beautiful, fearsome, strong — strong enough to kill someone like Rulindil and all the rest without need for weapons, magic, or the Voice. Perhaps it truly was a gift, not a curse.

She took off her right bracer.

Both brothers began to growl in warning, but Hircine hushed them. "Let her make her choice," he hissed.

As she reached for the pool, Miel caught a glimpse of the lily on her wrist and felt a twist of regret. Sofie and Lucia, dancing and giggling in their crowns and garlands, sprang forth in her mind. She imagined her father, too, strolling through the Camlorn market with that knowing smile and buying all their little gifts, including the painted whistle. He had sent her a joy she thought she would never feel again.

They would all be left behind. While she ran free as a wolf, assured of a new fate, they would be at Alduin's mercy, and Miel knew he had none.

Tears fell from her eyes and splashed onto the stone as she slowly drew her hand away.

"Ah," Hircine sighed. "You need to be chased a little longer." His sonorous laughter echoed through the clearing. "That can be arranged, drakeling. But, perhaps not now."

He then regarded the twins. "You brought her to me. Though the hunt continues, you shall have your reward."

Miel felt a chill as the Huntsman passed a hand over their backs, and under the graceful motion, their eyes turned from pale silver to a glowing red. Then, he was gone, leaving her to the wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally the end of the previous chapter, but I couldn't decide whether to keep it there or have it stand alone. Figured posting them on the same day/night would make things fine either way, but let me know what you guys think.


	22. Chapter 22

Farkas vaulted over the rock with its blood-filled hollow and slowly stepped toward her.

With a low growl, Vilkas followed. He felt bigger. Stronger. Faster. The woods around him felt even more alive, full of scared things waiting in their burrows and glades to be hunted down. He and his brother were kings here. With a single howl, he knew, he could call an army of lesser siblings to their side.

He didn't need an army for the prey before him, however.

"KAAN DREM!"

To Vilkas now, the Shout felt like little more than a tame slap. His brother barely flinched as they circled her. He could hear her heart racing like a field mouse's, could smell her fear radiating out of her body. That scent —

He knew her scent, her face, her voice — knew she was important. Yet as she drew her sword, silver flashing in the moonlight, Vilkas wanted to take her down. She had some power over him; that he knew as well. It was time for that to end.

"Please don't do this!" she cried. She turned this way and that, trying to keep both wolves in view. Vilkas knew she would put up a fight; that was the best part. The chase was always more thrilling than the feast, and a good fight made it better still.

With her right hand, she seemed to pull on the air. A frost atronach strolled into the clearing and then went straight for him, its massive pointed limb ready to make its first cold stab.

Vilkas roared and shattered the creature with three clawed strikes. He shook ice chips out of his fur and turned back to his prey. She would need better help than that.

Farkas was closer now. He snarled behind her, and she whirled around to slash at him, but her blade found only air. Twice, three more times she tried to strike, but Farkas was always one step out of reach; he was too fast. Vilkas sensed the exact moment she realized she had no hope of running away.

"Farkas, Vilkas, please," she begged.

Something inside him twisted at the sound of his name. He felt the man in his blood raging against him, as though throwing himself against the bars of a cage, but Vilkas shook off the feeling. That weakling was powerless here.

He lunged.

"FUS RO DAH!"

Force blasted out of her body and hit Vilkas like a wall. He staggered but did not lose his footing; he sunk a clawed hand into the ground, making tracks as the Shout pushed him back several yards.

Into the space she had created between them, she pulled a flame atronach before drawing her dagger. The first firebolt slammed into Vilkas's shoulder, and he roared at the smell of his own burning fur. He would have to deal with this first.

He attempted to dodge most of the atronach's volleys and keep it from darting away. Behind it, his brother had begun to fight the woman in earnest. _Miel. Bee._ Those were the sounds the man in him kept making, and Vilkas snarled to shut them out. Prey did not need a name beyond deer, or rabbit, or human.

The flaming doll changed targets, and Vilkas seized his chance. He struck out with his claws and knocked the woman to the ground. His brother had made some progress already; she was bleeding from somewhere, and the smell was driving him over the edge. He willed the man in him to shut up — SHUT UP! — 

"Feim," she gasped, sucking the wind into her lungs. "FEIM ZII!"

Vilkas leapt to pin her to the ground, but his claws found no hold on her body, and she slipped out from under him like a fish. He snarled at her escape. He began hounding her ghostly form around the clearing, but whenever he had her in his grasp, she slid away.

When her flesh began to reappear, he made another grab. This time, her blade connected with his arm. He yelped at the searing pain of silver and pulled back, giving her just enough time to dart past and stick him in the shoulder and the side. He roared in fury.

The sting of silver would sap his strength, but he had plenty to spare; she would need to strike truer if she wanted him to stop.

His arm shot out with a swipe that nearly knocked her to the ground, but her face grew more set, and she quickly retook a defensive stance, blades readied.

"Come on, Vilkas," she said. "Let's not do this."

She began to move faster. They fought for what felt like hours, with the woman using her Voice to either push them away or make herself untouchable, and keeping the atronach between them whenever possible. Vilkas grew frustrated as she whirled around, pricking and slashing more times than he or his brother could return — though when they did make contact, it knocked the wind out of her.

He felt the despair of the man in his blood; the man knew she was fighting to wound, not to kill. It only riled Vilkas even more. She was drawing the fight out on purpose, trying to outlast her hunters, trying to make him and his brother weak. But, she was human, or mostly human; surely, she would tire before they did.

The atronach exploded among them, creating a clearing within the clearing, and Farkas yelped as the flames licked his hide. As she shielded her face from the blast, Vilkas batted her dagger out of his hand.

"IIZ SLEN!"

Cold enveloped him, and Vilkas toppled like a tree. He couldn't move. He heard the muffled sound of magic — firebolts once again — and his brother's snarls as he battered another atronach. Vilkas could feel, too, that his time outside was nearing its end. He was running out of air in this sheath of ice, and his man spirit was now fighting with him for their lives.

With a last surge of strength, Vilkas broke the ice that encased him and slowly got to his feet, only to feel her silver blade piercing his back.

If she put any more weight into it, she would kill him. Vilkas knew when he was beaten.

Why did she hesitate?

The second atronach went up in a blaze, and Vilkas felt the woman pull back. He could sense Farkas's power waning, too, though his brother turned to advance on her again. They would either die as wolves by her sword, or live as men by her mercy, and his spirits struggled over which fate was worse.

"KAAN DREM!"

Vilkas's body seized, and his spirit retreated into the dark.

* * *

  
"Bee?"

Miel opened her eyes and saw both twins crouching over her. The red glow had faded from their eyes; the orbs were silver again, and welling with concern and remorse.

"Are you all right?" she gasped.

Vilkas sputtered. "What do you — we nearly killed you!"

Miel broke out laughing, only to turn to crying as she rolled onto her side in the burnt grass. Too many emotions had been running through her this night, and it still wasn't over.

"You were right," she replied wryly. "This was a bad idea."

Her body ached with bruises; her cheek and jaw stung. She gingerly felt them and held her fingertips up to the moonlight. Blood.

"We got you in the face," Farkas moaned.

"You need a curative," Vilkas said urgently. "We might be contagious."

Her eyes widened. "Might? You don't know?"

Vilkas swallowed.

"I'll consider myself lucky, then," she said, still dazed. "I'll be the first to find out."

"Miel," he warned.

"Don't worry." She sighed. "I don't want to become a werewolf just yet."

Farkas raised his brows. "Yet?"

Miel pushed off the ground to sit and catch her breath. Her eyes fell upon the long, low rock. It was still there. Its hollow was now mysteriously empty of Vilkas's blood, but it was stained. Hircine himself had offered her the gift. She had reached for it and then hesitated. Disappointment crept over her at the thought, yet even if the blood was there now, she knew she could not drink.

She looked back at the twins and sensed Vilkas about to lecture. "I don't," she insisted.

"We need to get back to camp," Farkas said weakly. "Potions are all there. Stitching kit, too."

Miel winced as her eyes took in her handiwork. Some of their wounds had closed during the fight, she noticed, but without their power now, they needed proper healing. Her hands fished a potion out of her hip pouch and offered it to the twins.

Farkas shook his head. "You take it."

Miel grunted and pressed it into his palms. "It's healing, not curative. I have both kinds back at camp. You need this more, right now. Look, my cuts are closing already."

She compared her arm with his. His wounds were lined with black where he had been struck by her silver-coated blade.

Frowning, Farkas downed half the bottle before handing it to his brother.

"Hircine," he whispered. "We're not really his sons, you know."

Miel smiled faintly. A lot of what the Huntsman had said was lost on her, too, but she was sure of a few things. "I know," she replied softly. "I think he was speaking in metaphors."

"And we didn't bring you to him on purpose. We didn't even know he would be here."

"It's all right, Farkas," she said. "Let's get back to camp, please."

Miel felt guilty then. She was the one who had followed Hircine, and she had done it alone. She had tracked the shining elk through the woods despite every instinct telling her not to go. In all likelihood, the Huntsman had known of her desire to escape and answered some unspoken call; she was the one who had drawn him here.

Vilkas led the way back to camp at first. All three of them must have made quite the picture: limping, battered, and bloody, the two men completely naked. Part of the way back, the brothers began to lean on one another.

Miel realized that they were sweating, and not merely from the effort of walking. She made them stop and pressed a hand to Vilkas's, then Farkas's forehead.

"You're feverish!"

Vilkas nodded. "It's the silver. Need to heal."

He tossed his chin at something behind her, and Miel saw that they had finally reached the ridge. She ran ahead and began digging in their packs for the potions. "I did not keep you alive just to let you bleed to death," she muttered.

The brothers drank and then staggered into camp. Miel hurriedly cast a flame spell on the remains of the campfire and threw on another log. Farkas dropped onto the nearest bedroll. "Pack," he said. "Stitches."

She fished bandages and a kit out of Farkas's pack, and he pointed to Vilkas. Miel was no medic, but perhaps having Sister Nina critique her needlepoint would finally be good for something.

"Start with him. I'll tell you how to do it," Farkas said. "My hands are too shaky just now."

"Your curative," Vilkas put in. "Did you take it?"

"I will," she replied, threading the needle. "It takes three days, doesn't it? Plenty of time for me to finish with you first."

Vilkas snapped. "You are not going to wait three days!"

"Hush. No, I'm not. Don't worry. You can watch me drink the potion tonight, if that will make you happy."

Farkas gave her instructions, and then she set to work. They were quiet as she worked the thread back and forth through Vilkas's skin. She was exhausted, and the fire gave barely enough light to see by, but she willed herself to focus on his wounds.

"Shor's bones, I'm glad we didn't manage to bite you," Farkas mumbled.

She had a brief vision of werewolf jaws closing over an arm, or a shoulder, and simply tearing the bones and flesh away. Would Colette and Dumont know how to fix that? Tullius would never let her out of his sight again.

"I'm glad, too," she said.

Miel frowned at the thought of the General. Hafiz and Maria would have reported to him by now, telling him what Esbern knew and explaining why she had not returned with them to Castle Dour. Did he believe them? Did he even believe Alduin was real?

She had given a report herself to Legate Quentin Cipius and Jarl Balgruuf at Whiterun. The Jarl had believed her on the spot. The Legate had not looked convinced. By the time she returned from High Hrothgar, a Legion courier would be waiting for her in Ivarstead, no doubt, and they would tell her — order her to either return to the front or continue chasing a black-winged legend. Would she need to make good on her threat to resign?

Where would she even find Alduin? Delphine's map was still Miel's best chance. She would learn this lost Shout and then lie in wait near the burial mound of the next ally Alduin would raise. They would all then learn if she was enough to stop him. That was what amounted to a plan. 

Hircine's words then rang in her mind. _Forget the black devourer._ The Huntsman knew what was happening. That made Miel's quest all the more real. A Daedric Prince had tried to claim her before all the world turned to ashes. He had invited her into his "family". The twins' family.

The peak of the Throat of the World seemed to sparkle, its unmelting snows reflecting the light of the moons. Miel could still run. She could take the three days to see if the claw scratches would be enough to turn her. Or perhaps —

She lifted Vilkas's arm to inspect the angry line left by the point of Hircine's spear. 

"No," Vilkas said, as though reading her thoughts. He snatched his arm away and then winced as the movement pulled on stitches elsewhere.

"Careful," Miel scolded. "I don't want to have to close you up again. Your brother's still waiting his turn."

Farkas nursed a potion bottle and said nothing.

"You cannot possibly be considering it still," Vilkas hissed. "I know Hircine's pull is strong, but he's gone now. And you've seen — you know what you would become. You can't — "

Miel cut him off. "I already told you I won't. You saw me hesitate. It's not going to happen anytime soon."

"Why do you say 'hesitate'? Why would you even — "

She bristled. "Vilkas, you're so convinced that it's wrong for me, so what makes it right for you?"

That shut him up, almost. "I don't even know anymore," he mumbled.

Miel huffed and continued her work. When she finished the last stitch, before she could think, she laid a kiss over it on Vilkas's shoulder. He flinched more out of surprise than anything.

"Careful," she said again, softly, as he stood to find his clothes.

She turned to Farkas and found him searching her with his eyes, but he still said nothing. Miel smiled faintly in gratitude and began tending to his cuts.

She grew warm at the memory of their kiss earlier that night. If the twins sensed this, they said nothing, though knowing they could detect such things only affected her even more.

They had her. She knew the dangers better than ever now, but these two had her. Mara's grace, she was sewing up gashes she had made herself, because they had just tried to kill her. But even then, Miel couldn't tear herself away. She had to be insane.

"Why are you still here?" Farkas asked quietly. Was he able to read her mind now, too? "I told you to save yourself, but you didn't even try to run. I told you to use your sword, but you didn't strike anywhere it counts."

Miel let the needle hover over his arm as she considered her answer.

"You would have been too fast for me to get far, if I ran," was all she said, after a while. Vilkas grunted. "And I didn't want to have to tell Kodlak you weren't coming home anymore."

At the mention of Kodlak's name, Farkas fidgeted, biting the inside of his cheek.

"You were safe, remember?" she continued. "After I fell out of the tree, you two had a chance then, too. Instead, you wanted me to go with you. I mean, I was terrified, but you made me feel safe — enough." She smiled somewhat. Teasing, she added, "You're still sort of handsome, even as wolves."

Vilkas snorted. "Be serious, Miel. Farkas had to stop me from mauling you even then. And after Hircine — blessed us — afterward, all the wolf wanted was to take you down."

"The wolf?"

Farkas looked embarrassed, uncertain. He touched his fingers to his chest. "After we took the blood, there were two spirits, or souls, or minds, or whatever you want to call it," he said. "A man's spirit, and a wolf's spirit. They're always fighting over who gets to be outside. That's why we don't sleep much. It's why I'm always hungry, and not always for food."

Miel raised her brows in curiosity. No wonder Vilkas's mood was often so foul.

The man himself stood glowering over them with his arms crossed, a potion bottle clutched in his fingers. "Companions make good werewolves because we tend to want the same things as the wolf spirit," Vilkas said. "To be free. To hunt, to run. To win."

Miel thought she heard a growl under the last word.

Farkas nodded. "Most werebeasts stay out here in the woods, or the mountains, because it's easier. Less worry about losing control over the wolf or the bear around people. Some even give up and go feral. But for the Circle, mastering both spirits while staying in Whiterun — it's a point of pride. Has been for centuries. That's what Skjor says, anyway."

As Miel finished off a stitch, Vilkas dropped the potion bottle into her lap. 

"Drink it now, please," he said sternly. "You do not want to be dealing with a wolf spirit on top of your dragon one. I can't begin to imagine what that is like."

Miel blinked in surprise. "There's only one soul in here," she replied slowly. "They say it's a dragon soul, but my body is human, and human is all I know how to be."

Vilkas nodded, solemn. She seemed to have confirmed some suspicion for him, some expected disappointment. "So, drink," he said.

Farkas tapped her on the knee. It was his turn to be curious now. "You don't feel a dragon in there, fighting to — do whatever it is dragons want to do?

She considered it as she rethreaded the needle.

There was a part of her that exulted in dominating the battlefield, that felt both satisfied and unsatisfied when Taarie had put that jade circlet on her head in Solitude, that chafed more and more at Castle Dour's commands. It was this part of her that was actually proud of having the twins' lives at the point of her sword and simply not taking them. This part of her wanted nothing more than to track down every last Word of Power, kill every dragon unworthy of their resurrection, and show everyone — Tullius, Ulfric, Elenwen, Stormcloaks, soldiers, peasants, Jarls — what real dominion looked like. This part of her had slept until she slew Mirmulnir.

But, it was only one part of her. The rest of her still wanted to believe in love, beauty, and delight, and Miel still found the purest delight in being human, and loving humans. Mostly humans, anyway.

"After the Western Watchtower," she finally said, "some part of me that I didn't even know was asleep was suddenly very much awake. It's a part of me that wants — _craves_ power." Likely another reason Hircine's offer had been hard to resist, she realized. "But, it's part of me, and only one part of me. I'm still a single, whole self." She was briefly aware of her own stitched-up hands. That was still somewhat true.

"I — I like being Dragonborn. Or, I did, until recently. But I suppose, if what you're saying about two spirits is true, becoming a werewolf will only make things more complicated, and it still won't erase who I am."

Those were the words she had been looking for, and she smiled. "I suppose that's why I'm still here, too," she said, "and why I'm patching you up instead of running away."

Farkas let escape a small whine, and she laughed. Vilkas, however, was not satisfied. He pointed at the potion bottle.

Miel rolled her eyes. "You're not going to rest until I've drunk it, are you?"

"I don't rest," he said simply.

"So I've learned," she retorted. She uncorked the bottle and grimaced at the smell. Charred skeever hide. Why couldn't they have discovered curative properties in something more pleasant, like bilberries, or mint? She took a sip and tried not to gag.

"You still haven't answered my question," Miel added. "Why are you so convinced that I shouldn't be like you?"

Vilkas handed his brother some clothes and sighed.

"Being unlike me is one of the things I like most about you," he said quietly. "I know you've changed after whatever the Thalmor did to you, and I hate seeing it. I'm still trying to accept this idea of you going off to Shout down the World-Eater, too. I know that I can't tell you what to do, Bee. But I'd rather — " he closed his eyes and took a breath. "If you must change, I'll need some time to understand."

Miel broke into a crooked smile. "Not to worry, then. Making sure we have more time is at the top of my list." She wrinkled her nose and took another swallow of the potion. "That's a bit rich, though, considering that I take you as you are now," she teased.

Vilkas ran a hand over his face. "Another thing I struggle to understand," he muttered.

She looked at Farkas then. "What about you?" she asked. "What do you think of this business?"

Farkas set a bedroll down beside her, and she began to undo her armor. He shrugged. "It's enough for now that we haven't killed each other yet," he replied. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

By the firelight, she could see that look he wore when he wanted to kiss her. A hungry look. Miel turned her face away, though she knew by now that it was no use. Instead, she met Vilkas's eyes and offered him a hopeful smile.

"We'll be more careful next time," she told him. "You'll need to eat more than half a chicken. I'll need to get better at staying in trees."

Violently, Vilkas shook his head. "There won't be a next time. You shouldn't be anywhere near us. I don't know if we're safe around people anymore, after what Hircine did tonight."

"I'm people, aren't I?" Wasn't she? "From what I know, you can't transform again for at least another night, so we're safe for now. I'm staying here," she said firmly. "I still have a mountain to climb at dawn; you're not going to make me walk to Ivarstead now in this state, are you?"

Vilkas grumbled. "No."

She stuffed herself into the bedroll and groaned with relief as her back met the ground. The fatigue of this night was too much.

"We'll get better," Farkas said then. "It'll be like when we were made, Vilkas. He made the wolf spirits stronger, so we'll have to get stronger, too." He gnawed thoughtfully on his cheek. "Vilkas is probably right, though," he said to Miel. "We aren't going hunting together again until we have a better hold of this."

Miel grunted, relenting. Her first impulse was to protest, but to tell the truth, she did not like the thought of having to fight them off again. And, at the moment, she had more pressing things to worry about.

"Don't go anywhere, now," she murmured. "Don't want those stitches coming loose."

That was the reason she gave, anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, no, Miel does not know more than two Words to most of her Shouts — just like in most of my playthroughs, until my characters don't even need the third Words anymore.


	23. Chapter 23

_There's your precious fort._

Miel pushed all her breath out her nose and stared northward over the Greenwall battlements. This was a waste of time, and Tullius had to have known better than to send her here. She had to get to Winterhold. The roads past Windhelm were heavily guarded now, but she could skirt the old capital by taking the northern coast from Dawnstar. If a boatman wouldn't drop her off in the ice fields, she would hike.

The problem was getting away. When she came down from High Hrothgar, after nearly two days of peace at the peak, she'd expected a Castle Dour courier in Ivarstead, with a summons she could safely ignore for a few more days. Instead, a whole Fort Neugrad platoon was waiting to escort her back to the front lines.

Now that she'd helped Rikke and Fasendil take Fort Greenwall at last, Miel felt eyes watching her every move. All of the horses had been secured by the quartermaster and his men, or she would have ridden off faster than she could say "insubordination".

"This would have dragged on longer without you. I'm glad you made it here." Rikke had appeared at her shoulder. "I expect Tullius will make you Tribune once we take the city."

Miel grunted. One year ago, she would have been floored to receive her first promotion, let alone a second just months later.

"You said you'd let me go where I was needed," she muttered. "You promised me, Legate. I need to be out there."

Rikke sighed. "Not here in front of the men. Let's go to the officers' quarters."

The city. Riften was not as well-built as Whiterun, but its snaking streets and canals would make it a tricky battleground, and secret passages everywhere meant key persons could get out, or reinforcements could come in, where the Legion least expected. Adventus's people had been studying the city for months. Now that they had Greenwall, they could finally test his knowledge in a siege.

Miel, of course, was reluctant to put stock in Adventus's intelligence now, but she had to follow orders. So did Rikke. That was what the Legate said, anyway.

She burst as soon as the doors closed behind them. "Haven't we been over this?" Miel cried. "This war will be pointless if I don't stop Alduin. To stop him, I cannot be here, Legate. Sieges can take months! Every minute I don't spend searching for the — the artifact is a loss!"

Again, Rikke sighed. "We've gained so much ground; we cannot stop now. Quaestor, a swift victory at Riften hinges on you. Yes, sieges take time, but we have you. Whiterun would still be under, this very moment, if not for you."

"Me and dragons. Dragons are still a factor, Legate. And they will always be a factor, unless you let me go."

Exhausted, Rikke searched the cupboards of the officers' quarters. In the late Captain's desk, she found a bottle of Alto wine. "See any cups?" she asked.

Miel huffed and skimmed the room. Poorly hidden on the bookshelves was a set of silver goblets, each embedded with four large amethysts. Probably a bribe from one of the Riften nobles, and often used — they didn't need dusting.

"I seize this in the name of Emperor Titus Mede II," she said drily, taking two of the goblets to the desk. She dragged a chair along, too.

The workmanship was quite good, she thought vaguely. Perhaps she could retire after the war and learn silversmithing herself. Ha! What would the twins make of that?

"Something funny, Quaestor?"

Miel shook her head. "My mind is elsewhere, like I ought to be."

Focus. Breath and focus. This was a distraction, an attempt to take advantage of her own fatigue and any remaining inclinations to follow authority. She still respected Rikke, and the Legate knew that. If winning Riften hinged on Miel, winning Miel hinged on Rikke.

"Start from the beginning." The Legate uncorked the wine and poured. "I wasn't paying much attention when you arrived, as we were in the thick of it. What is this artifact, Quaestor? We need you here, too. Why can't you trust Castle Dour intelligence to dig it up, while you fight?"

Miel raised the cup at Rikke, showing the back of her scarred hand. "You know why, ma'am. Or has the General not informed you?"

Rikke looked away, shaking her head. "I'm sorry that happened to you. But, that doesn't quite answer my questions."

Miel bit her cheek. No one outside of High Hrothgar was to know she sought an Elder Scroll. She'd gleaned enough about them in her priestly studies to know they held untold secrets. Secrets were power, and power meant everything if it could turn the tide of a war. She knew that from the coup in Dawnstar, and from being all but frog-marched deeper into the Rift. In three days, she had wrapped up the battle for Fort Greenwall that had been going for nearly two weeks.

If Tullius, Ulfric, or Elenwen knew, they might try to commandeer the Scroll for their own ends. If they knew she meant to see through time — assuming she didn't go blind in the attempt — they might try to interfere; the gaze could reveal the way this and future wars would be won. Miel wanted to trust Rikke, but she could not take the risk.

"The leader of the Greybeards laid the task on my shoulders," she said carefully. "It's an artifact only I can manage, as Dragonborn. I'm sorry, ma'am; that's all I can say."

Rikke pursed her lips and shook her head.

"You know, the General doesn't want to believe you," she said, running a thumb over an amethyst on her goblet. "Not entirely. If the witnesses to these resurrections weren't growing in number, if two of his own soldiers hadn't been with you at Rorikstead and seen it with their own eyes, he'd think you were trying to get out of duty."

"Well, I am."

Rikke grimaced. "You don't admit that to me, your superior officer!" She took a drink from the goblet. "There's still room in the cells, you know. I'd hate to put one of our own soldiers back in there after we've just replaced them with Stormcloaks."

Miel shrugged. She knew Rikke would do no such thing, for the same reason Miel could not yet actually resign. The Legion had to look united, strong.

"Will you at least tell me where you plan to go?" the Legate asked.

"Winterhold. The College." Another bastion of neutrality. She might be tempted to stay longer than necessary. "I need to use their library."

"Hm. You might need to take a boat. From Dawnstar."

"I thought so, too." Miel sat up straighter. "You'll let me go, then?"

Rikke sighed. "I can't." She gestured at the walls. "I don't know if you've heard, or if you've some sense of it, but dragons have been sighted in the southern Velothi Mountains. We suspect it will be Whiterun all over again. The battle here, the siege to come — it's drawn them here. If we're to avoid great loss of life in Riften, we need you here."

Miel's heart sank. Something stirred, some ancient knowledge borne by a soul that belonged to someone she had defeated not too long ago. Nahagliiv.

"I've drawn them here," she realized. "They mean to challenge me, Legate. They want to prove their usefulness to Alduin, or simply to defeat me in combat and prove their superior might."

"You can't be serious!"

"You want to avoid losses? I could lead them away. I'd lead them right through Eastmarch and let Ulfric's boys deal with them, ma'am. I wouldn't need a boat to Winterhold then."

Rikke shook her head. "You don't know that they'd follow you. Turning Riften to ashes might be an acceptable consolation for not getting the Dovahkiin."

Miel made an angry noise in her throat. Of course, she was right. Riften could merely be the next Kynesgrove, on a much larger scale, and with many more pointless deaths.

"The orphanage is in Riften," Rikke added softly.

Well, damn it all to Oblivion and back.

The Legate wore a wry smile, her eyes reflecting a bit of sympathy, but also satisfaction. Once again, the Legion had its favorite legionnaire where it wanted her.

Rikke topped off Miel's goblet and stood. "I'm going to see where Fasendil's gone, and then we'll begin to go over plans for the siege," she said.

"Do you need me there?"

Rikke rummaged in the desk, pulled out a few rolls of paper, and tossed them onto the surface. "Not for an hour or so." She indicated the inkstand at Miel's elbow with her chin. "Mail courier will be by after the briefing. You might want to have letters ready by then. No telling when the next chance will be, once the siege is underway."   
  
Letters. As the other officer left the room, Miel sighed and cast about the walls for something to write about, and the names and faces of likely correspondents passed through her mind.

What she wanted was to go home, but her blasted sense of duty had her by the short hairs once again.

She was bound for Riften, then Winterhold, then who knew where, with Alduin hanging over it all. Who knew when Miel would be home again? She felt a pang as she realized, she would have to finally tell Guillaume what was happening, if rumors and reports had not crept westward from Skyrim already. He deserved to know, to decide what to do with the rest of his days if she failed. The girls, perhaps, she would leave with their innocence; they and a few other friends at Whiterun would get but brief lines of cheer and hopefully prescient advice.

The Blades. Delphine had said she would check for letters at the Old Hroldan, but Miel couldn't think of a reason to share her progress, or the details of her meeting with Paarthurnax. Esbern was nice enough — perhaps he would know where she might find the Elder Scroll. But, Arngeir had warned her that the Blades' claims to serve her were false; they were more likely to demand some dire service to them in exchange for what help they might give instead. Miel didn't need more entanglements in her life. So, no letters to the Blades. If Delphine wanted to reach her, she knew how.

If the old bat somehow stole the Elder Scroll first just to talk to her, Miel would Shout all of Sky Haven Temple into rubble.

The Greybeards. Yes, Arngeir had railed against her being a tool in others' hands. Paarthurnax had chided her for submitting to prophecy, for letting herself be the plaything of destiny. The Greybeards, she felt, were truly on her side, and she was grateful. They reminded her that she had a choice, allowing her to see why she would chase prophecy anyway: she loved this world and had love in this world. She would fight Alduin not for destiny's sake, but the world's.

No one on the Throat of the World cared for letters, though, she suspected.

Miel spied a chess board perched on top of a barrel, left in a game that the fort's former Captain would never finish now. The sight of the pieces stirred up a familiar warmth in her chest. One letter, at least, would be fairly easy to write.

* * *

  
Her hair was chestnut brown; her skin, like tea with a splash of milk. But, it had none of the honey burnish from her hours in the sun and snow, and that was strange. Her frame was thinner, and her scent — her scent was all wrong.

A hand groped at Farkas beneath the blankets, and she giggled. "Shall we have another go? We've got till noon before Lucan gets back."

Farkas groaned as he remembered where he was, why he was there.

"Come on," Camilla crooned. "He stopped taking me along on supply runs after he caught me with Mikael at the Mare. Once he gets back, I won't have my fun anymore."

He snatched her wrist and brought it out from under the blanket. When no other thought came, he let it fall on his chest. He rubbed his temples and sighed.

"This won't happen again," he said, somewhat apologetically.

Camilla giggled once more and threw the blanket off entirely. She covered his body with hers — what her slip of a body could cover, anyway — and slid her tongue over his nipple.

"Even less convincing than the other night, Companion. Or was it yesterday morning already?"

Shor's bones, he shouldn't have come here. It hadn't been like this since his first turning. Farkas hated this, hated how years of focus and control had been swept away by a wave of Hircine's clawed hand. It had been one thing to promise he would regain it all, and some, for Bee's sake. It was quite another thing to try fulfilling that promise with each new day in her absence.

If one took the appetites of a lad just come of age, put them in the body of a fully grown, highly skilled warrior Nord, and made him a twice-blessed, twice-cursed, bloodthirsty werewolf to boot, one got — well, one got blood-drunk, and then actually drunk, and then one found willing company and a bed — or a haystack, or a soft patch of grass — to work off what the hunt left over, before doing it all over again the next night, until one's wolf spirit learned who was really in charge.

It was fun when Farkas was first promoted, but it wasn't his life anymore, or wasn't supposed to be. He'd tamed the wolf in his blood, curbed its appetites, and recovered some of his dignity. His reputation with women had been established well before, and the Circle did little to dispel the rumors that the ritual involved moon sugar, mushrooms, poppies, or what-have-you, so people around them had dismissed that phase as the temporary barminess that came with a Companion's promotion. Over the centuries, Whiterun's bartenders and innkeepers had even learned to look forward to such events, especially with the Jarls themselves looking the other way.

In those early days, it had felt like something to celebrate with the whole city — a great step forward in a worthy warrior's life. Here, in Camilla's room above the Golden Claw, Farkas felt he had taken a great step back.

"I don't know why you're so upset," Camilla said with a pout. "Your brother told me last month that the lady doesn't mind."

Farkas did. Farkas minded.

"You have to tell me how you manage that, by the way. Sven and Faendal are so dull, but if I can get them to agree — "

"A lot of talking. And a lot of writing, since she's always away."

Camilla wound her fingers around the hairs on his chest. "That doesn't sound very fun."

Farkas sat up with a huff, gently but firmly pushing her back between his knees. "It's not just about fun. It's about caring, and being honest. It's about love. I could count the evenings I've spent with her on my two hands, but that doesn't matter. It's about having someone you'd wait through anything for, someone you'd be with even when things aren't fun."

Even when you nearly kill each other, after running into your Daedric master in the woods.

"Your brother doesn't wait," Camilla replied, sliding her hands along his thighs. "You seem a bit impatient as well."

Farkas felt his body responding to her touch, but he made her stop. "My brother and I are different people, with different ideas about how to pass the time."

"Mm. He has ideas with his hands. You have ideas with your mouth."

"Camilla!"

The name came from outside as well. With a squeal, she tumbled back and wrapped the blanket around her, haphazardly, inside out.

"Quiet!" she hissed. "It's Sven!"

"Who?"

"Sven! That dumb Nord bard you gave a beating last year."

Farkas knit his brows and shrugged. "I beat up a lot of dumb bards," he said. "One cheeky new couplet to 'Ragnar the Red', and they think they're the next Finn Leifsson."

"Shh!"

"Camilla, are you in there?" This Sven's knocking was quite insistent. "I passed some Companions this morning, and I — well, I just want to make sure you're not — that you're — are you all right in there?"

"Are you going to answer him?"

"Shh, no, shut up!"

More urgent, panicked knocking. "Camilla!"

She cleared her throat. "I'm fine, Sven," she called. "Just — I just don't feel like opening the shop yet, all right? I don't get a lot of time to myself."

The last bit was more pointed. Farkas rolled his eyes. He remembered now; it was the bard from the Sleeping Giant, just down the road.

"Ah. Of course, my sweet," Sven called. "I'll — I'll come by this afternoon."

"Oh, but Lucan will be back then. I'll be so busy, helping him with inventory and accounts and all that."

"Ah. Of course," he said again. Across the road, Farkas thought he could hear Aela and Skjor snickering.

"All right," Sven said. "I suppose I'll see you when you're free, then. Goodbye, darling."

"Goodbye!"

Red-cheeked and bubbling with laughter, Camilla scrambled back onto the bed, shedding the blanket as she came closer.

Farkas gripped her by the shoulders to stall her advance. "Are you — cheating on him with me?" he asked.

She snorted. "We're not together. I'm not with anyone. I don't belong to anyone. That's something all the men around here can't seem to get into their heads!"

She halted her approach herself and sat back again, her nose wrinkling in frustration. Then, she reached under the bed and pulled out a little strongbox. She shook it so that the coins and baubles rattled inside.

"Lucan doesn't pay me for the things I do around the shop," she said bitterly. "He thinks it's enough that I have food, clothes, and a roof over my head. He just gives me a little allowance every now and then, and I save as much of it as I can. It was the same with our father, right until the day Lucan saved enough to open the Claw on his own. I only followed after Father died because I didn't know any better."

Camilla narrowed her eyes. "One day, it'll be the same with me. I'll book passage on a ship, I'll have a great adventure, and I'll never have to put up with Riverwood or Lucan or Sven ever again!"

"What about Faendal?"

"Hm?"

Farkas smiled faintly. "Was it Faeldan? I think you mentioned a Faendal, earlier."

"Did I?" Camilla grew perturbed, and Farkas continued to smile to himself. She was pretty, he allowed. All the rosiness and naive charm of a lost princess from the tales.

"I can't be with Faendal," Camilla said. "If I'm with Faendal, then — then I'll never be able to leave."

"But, would he wait for you?"

"What?"

"Would he wait for you if you asked? You could go off on your grand adventure, and if he was willing to wait for you, you could just come home to him when you're ready."

"He'd — " her eyes grew wide. She shook her head in fierce denial. "I could never ask him to wait. I'd want him to be happy while I was gone, and — and maybe he'd be happy just waiting, but if he got bored, or lonely, I'd be all right if he — oh, but if I know him, I know he'd wait, and I'd — oh."

She lifted her eyes to Farkas's, and a whimper left her throat.

He laughed.

"This won't happen again," he said, firmly this time, but with kindness. He felt a bit more confident about it, too.

Camilla sighed and shook her head.

"I think your breeches are over there," she said. She pointed at a mounted mudcrab on the wall, its pincers having hooked the fabric when it flew. 

In the bright morning sun outside, Farkas squinted as Vilkas strode out of the Sleeping Giant Inn. His brother squinted back.

"All right, Farkas?"

"Mm. Better."

Skjor sighed and clapped them on the shoulder. "Come on. Nanny Skjor has work to do today, as Kodlak won't let you take contracts till you're good and well-behaved again."

Vilkas scowled. "You could have left us when we got to Riverwood. How long is Kodlak going to make you mind us when we hunt?"

Farkas caught the glance Skjor gave Aela. They had left, he realized. He and Vilkas had been too preoccupied to notice.

Aela grumbled. "I'd hardly call it minding. You're so much faster now, and you don't follow when we call you."

She was more jealous than scolding, Farkas knew. She was the most devoted of all the Circle, but like other worshipful folk, Aela had expected to see her lord only when she died. That Hircine had met and blessed her two idiot younger brothers by some accident of fate — it irked her to no end. That it was probably no accident at all, given that the Dragonborn was involved, was even worse for her to consider.

"When you've mastered your selves again, or when we're staring Alduin in the face, whichever comes first," Skjor said. "That's when we'll trust you to be on your own again."

Farkas sighed. Despite what he'd said to Camilla, facing Alduin first actually seemed likely these days. But, Bee would be back in Whiterun soon, and maybe they'd have a moment before her task took her somewhere else. Maybe he'd convince her that her upstairs rule was silly, and making love in her own bed could be much better than in a guest room. He would make sure she enjoyed every minute. If any good came of their meeting Hircine, it was that his stamina had immensely —

"Companions! Wait a moment, Companions!" 

A red courier ran down the steps of the inn and through the town's northern arch. Lightning-white hair and golden skin — an Altmer soldier. He'd known by the voice alone, but even so, for a moment, Farkas had hoped.

"I hadn't realized that was you," she panted. "I am headed to Whiterun, but I might as well give this to you now."

She pulled a letter out of her satchel, and the scent Farkas had been missing that morning wafted into the air. 

"Ohohoho," Skjor said.

"Shut up," Vilkas snapped. He took the letter and thanked the courier, and then she was on her way.

They watched her form grow smaller as she ran.

"Feels familiar, eh, Farkas?" Aela teased. "You didn't ask her to join this time. She not look strong enough for you?"

He said nothing, only fell into step with his brother as the letter was opened. Her even script was a delight to see, but the words —

"Well?" Skjor asked. "What news from your sweetheart in Ivarstead?"

"In Riften," Vilkas replied, voice faltering. "The Legion's taken Fort Greenwall. The city will be under siege by next dawn."

Bee was back in the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One challenge that keeps cropping up as I write this is that I never wrote the characters swearing before, so for the sake of consistency, I have to get a little creative if they have swear-y thoughts now.
> 
> It's also been interesting to read back and see the tweaks I didn't realize I was making along the way until they became set in the story's style. I used "Miel" and "Bee" more interchangeably, for instance; now, I tend to use "Bee" just to avoid some repetition, or if it's someone close addressing her. Farkas uses her nickname the most.
> 
> I also swapped points of view more often within sections -- especially in those first tipsy conversations the trio had -- but as Miel went off to war, sections of story began to be written from just one character's limited point of view, and then that way of writing just stuck.
> 
> Anyhow, I want to thank all the strangers and logged-in people who've stuck around through all these tweaks, and who've been reading and leaving kudos and comments. I hope you're still having fun. :)


	24. Chapter 24

Unlike Whiterun, Riften had time to prepare for a siege. They had known the Legion was coming. They had time to train their soldiers, build palisades, barricades, and other new fortifications, and evacuate everyone unable or unwilling to fight. They had time to acquire and store enough food and supplies to last months, and to establish channels through which they might get more.

Yet, for strange, inexplicable reasons, many of the preparations were bungled or incomplete. Jarl Laila Law-Giver seemed unable to make up her mind. One moment, new fortifications were declared urgent and necessary. The next, they were deemed likely to sow fear and panic among the citizens. There was no question they needed to evacuate, yet they also needed to show the Empire, no one in Riften was afraid. Now that dragons had been sighted in the area, and the Legion had blocked the roads and taken the farms, there was no question now; they all had to stay inside the city walls.

The soldiers' training proceeded well enough, yet other troubles emerged. A quarter of the troops took ill from fish the cook swore had been fresh that afternoon. Commander Gonnar's lieutenant was thrown from his horse, spooked by an atronach that appeared out of nowhere. An important shipment of weapons and gold, supposedly a secret, was ambushed and stolen by troops in red. Potion stores were contaminated with skooma; time and resources were lost brewing replacements and investigating the source. Someone was undermining the Stormcloaks from inside, they suspected, but every trail went cold too quickly.

By the time the Legion was at their doorstep with the Dragonborn, Riften knew it would need more help from the Palace of the Kings. Miel and Hadvar's unit had taken the third guard tower, on the road to the northern gates, when the urgent message came. Ulfric Stormcloak was in the city.

"How?" Miel asked, as Hadvar crumpled the paper in his bloody fist. "We have men from here to Darkwater and Shor's Watchtower. How did he get through the blockade?"

"Ulfric knows Skyrim like the back of his hand," Hadvar griped. "He'd have taken some hidden mountain pass, then slipped in through one of the thieves' tunnels. Also, our perimeter is weaker than we'd like." He tossed back a healing potion and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. "At least he's come to fight his own war at last. Will you stay here tonight, or shall I escort you to the lower tower?"

The Stormcloaks were retreating behind the city walls, now within sight. They could take the time for both sides to lick their wounds, but there was always the chance of a sortie, especially with Ulfric now in the fight.

"Here is where Rikke told me to be," Miel said.

The Legate was sending commands from Greenwall, which would need defending if troops from Eastmarch came for a countersiege. Fasendil was the one in the field; near the southern gate, he and his own troops were preparing a battering ram. The Legion's siege engine on the northern side was currently hungry and tired, minded by a certain Riverwood officer in case she formed any new ideas about leaving.

"Get some sleep, then," Hadvar said. "I can take first watch. You could very well face Ulfric himself come morning."

Miel thought back to the day of New Life, when she'd taken Balgruuf's axe to Windhelm and met the rebel Jarl. Ulfric had been formidable, but he had not known who she was. A curious excitement unfurled inside her at the possibility of facing him now, stronger than she had ever been.

"Tinvaak los grah," Paarthurnax had said. Voice against Voice in deadliest debate.

Ulfric would definitely know when they met this time, and Miel would defeat him. The war would end here, in Riften, and she would be free. Nothing would hold her back from where she was truly needed, and then — then! If the gods were kind, she might finally be able to live for herself.

She latched onto this spark lit inside her and took a breath, lowering herself onto her knees and then sitting back on the watchtower floor.

"What are you doing?" Hadvar asked.

"What Ulfric is probably doing," she answered. "Will you let me know if there's dinner?"

But she didn't hear Hadvar's reply as she closed her eyes, and the words of an ancient dragon rumbled forth from memory.

"Think of the way force may be applied effortlessly," Paarthurnax said. "Imagine but a whisper pushing aside all in its path."

_Fus._

"Power is inert without action and choice."

Miel knit her brow. That wasn't what the old dov had said next. _Focus. Breath and —_

"Suleyk. Power." _Yol._

Ulfric's craggy face swam before her mind's eye as she'd last seen him, brow furrowed, angry spittle flying as his speech resounded across his cold, empty great hall.

Before she was born, he left the Greybeards to heed the call of the Great War, forsaking the Way of the Voice, and tomorrow, he would use his Voice against his own people. Her people, too. Son and daughter of Skyrim, they were. Was she any better, if this was how she planned to use her power? Arngeir disapproved, but he believed she was exempt from their rules, simply by right of birth. Yet Paarthurnax himself, born with the same power and immortal besides, submitted to the Way of the Voice.

"Su'um arkh morah."

 _My path is my own_ , she reminded herself. _My choices are my own. Ulfric chose to start a new war. I will choose to end it._

"What will you burn? What will you spare?"

* * *

  
_Yol._

The air crackled with his Thu'um as Ulfric fought legionnaires off the battlements, but Miel did not answer. Her spirit seethed at the telltale echoes of someone less worthy, but she waited, and listened.

"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"

Soldiers cried out and scrambled as his Voice wrenched the steel from their hands, and Ulfric and Galmar cut them down like scythes through dry grass. Some who survived a blow from the Jarl's axe ran screaming in terror, but Miel did not see.

She waited, patiently turning all feeling into fuel. She breathed.

_Yol._

Red soldiers streamed past to replace their fallen comrades at the walls. Spells and arrows flew back and forth between red and blue, and there was much, much red on the dust, on the grass, on the stones. The air rang with the clash of steel, and —

"FUS RO DAH!"

— legionnaires staggered and fell as Ulfric continued to repel their forces, but Miel waited, eyes closed, radiant with the heat building in her lungs.

The spellswords twitched nervously in their wedge formation behind her, behind and beneath the shields. Some of them had wards raised, and shield-bearers grunted as arrows struck the dome of wood and steel. Archers cursed what seemed an endless supply of Stormcloaks defending the gatehouse, but all was a dull roar to the Dragonborn, who imagined only the gates, and heard only —

_Yol._

Action and choice. Change, given form.

_Gates into kindling._

A faint tumult echoed from the other end of the city. "They're breaching the south!" Hadvar cried. "Rally, men! It will be our turn soon!"

_A city into a battlefield._

"HAAL VIIK!"

_An unbeatable Jarl into a man in chains._

Hadvar lightly grasped her shoulder and then took his hand away. That was the signal. The way would soon be clear. The power rising into her throat would finally find release.

Eyes still shut, Miel summoned a flame atronach and heard the conjurers beside her do the same. Heat emanated from the daedra in such close quarters, but perhaps that was only her own fire, begging to leave her body. She heard the shield-bearers begin to part. She heard flames sparking in the spellswords' hands. She opened her eyes.

"Now!" Hadvar boomed.

They charged.

As the gates loomed larger before her, the sheer power she carried threatened to scorch her from the inside out, but Miel held, and waited, and waited, until —

_"YOL TOOR!"_

A white-hot blaze streamed out of her. A dozen fireballs from the mages and atronachs followed, exploding against the wood. Every man and mer stepped back to shield their faces, their eyes, but the Dragonborn looked on, her own eyes like brilliant suns. For a moment, the lines were still; even the Stormcloaks on the walls stopped in awe.

Then, Miel fell silent.

Where the gates of Riften once stood was a pile of smoldering splinters, ash, and molten iron. The next sound they heard was the Dragonborn laughing in ecstatic surprise. A roar erupted from behind her, and the Imperial Legion surged into the city.

"Fall back!" Ulfric bellowed. "Choke them off!"

The streets were narrow, and the wooden walkways groaned over the canals. Riften rang with screams and chaos and iron and steel as the Stormcloaks recovered, attempting to push back the invading force. Miel knew it was too late for them now.

An almost drunken giggle escaped her lips as she began to slice and weave through the fighters, in the direction of her chosen foe. "Power at its most primal," Paarthurnax had said. This was what it tasted like. This was what it meant to be a dragon. The euphoria was almost too much for Miel to bear.

She no longer saw the soldiers she cut down, did not see Galmar nearly foaming at the mouth to reach her. Her heart longed for wings, to rise into the skies where she clearly belonged.

The axe head swung into her field of vision, and Miel threw herself to the ground. Only reflex saved her; she felt a stinging above her right eye and the thick warm trickle that followed. Snarling, she rolled and raised her blades to block the General's next strike.

"No, Galmar!" Ulfric cried above the fray. "Leave her to me!"

"I made a vow, my Jarl!"

Galmar stepped back and made ready to swing again. In that brief moment, Miel knew how his arms would move, where his feet would land, and where she would have to strike. She stepped to the side and turned her blades. Across the way, Ulfric's eyes widened in rapid realization.

"FUS RO DAH!"

His Shout swept Miel and his General clean off their feet, along with several other soldiers in his path. Galmar and others crashed through a railing and fell into the canal with a great splash, but Miel landed on the bridge and dug her sword into the wood.

Her dagger was lost, but that was no matter. A bound sword flashed into her empty hand to replace it as she pulled herself up to stand. The way to Ulfric was now clear.

"You and me, Dragonborn!" he roared. "We fight for the city! No one else will have to die today. No more battles will be fought tomorrow. The war can end here! Now! We settle this in the old way!"

Outcries of protest rose from both armies, but already, a few fighters lowered their arms, some in shock, and some in hope. Miel felt a thousand eyes on her as she returned Ulfric Stormcloak's hardened gaze.

The elation of Yol was leaching away from her, leaving cold determination in its place.

"Nothing would please me more, Jarl Ulfric."

Another cry went up from the crowd. The Stormcloak leader, now champion, pushed forward as Miel drew back toward the market square. A narrow Riften lane was no place for a duel. She saw Hadvar directing footmen away, no doubt to inform the Legates of this new development. She thought she saw Ralof doing the same for the other side.

Ulfric fell into step beside her. They marched toward the market in silence, winding through the twisted streets. Riften was a wonder of mortal resourcefulness, built over the eras on a fishing village squeezed between the Smokefrost Peaks and Lake Honrich. The rickety houses and warehouses of Plankside teetered over the water, while the manors of the Dryside climbed higher and higher, darkening the streets with their shadows, blocking the sun from the rest of the city till nearly noon. An ideal city for dark dealings, where darkness was unnaturally long.

Below, by the canals, Miel saw wary locals peering out of their ramshackle huts at the Dragonborn and the would-be king. Galmar stood dripping on one of the walkways and stared at her with such venom as a Stormcloak grunt hissed urgently in his ear.

"My Jarl!" he called out, beginning to trot along below them. "Let me be your champion! Let me have the honor of striking this traitor bitch down!"

Miel's eyebrows flew up in mild amusement. "I don't recall swearing fealty to you," she said to the man at her shoulder. Muttering, she added, "Keeping my current oath is hard enough."

The Jarl of Windhelm said nothing at first. His worn face was lined with thought. Then, "You betray Skyrim, not me," he said quietly. "Your oath is to those who mean to throw our freedoms away, as though they are theirs to forsake."

Miel shook her head. "I took my oath at the same age you took yours. I might not have lived as long as you, Jarl, but I know enough about time, and change."

"And Thalmor interrogation?"

She stopped short, fists curled, fire forming again in her throat. Ulfric turned to her with a bitter smirk. The troops following them had marched some paces behind and gave no sign of hearing their brief conversation, but they looked curiously now at Miel and the Jarl.

"I know enough about that as well," he said softly. "More than enough. More than anyone should. I know what it is to be broken and used. I will not let that happen to my country."

"But you're the one who broke it apart, Jarl Ulfric," Miel hissed. "You're the reason I was sent to Skyrim in the first place." Her voice began to rise. "You're the reason I'm here, now. In bloody Riften — instead of out there working to stop Alduin!"

It was his turn to be taken aback. Several soldiers were shaken as well; this, they had definitely heard.

Miel shook her head and resumed walking. Ulfric kept pace. For a while, they were silent once more.

The Temple of Mara came into view, and Miel felt a twist in her heart.

"So, it's true," Ulfric said softly. "Alduin has returned."

"Legends don't burn down villages," she echoed. "We saw him at Helgen with our own eyes, you and I."

"The execution. The Thalmor — "

"Have nothing to do with it. And, it seems you know the price I paid to learn that."

They were at the market square now. Soldiers, red and blue, had begun to form a ring around them. Galmar broke through to stand just inside. Fasendil rode up with the troops that had been battling at the southern gates. The tension mounted; the outcome of the war was at hand.

"Sundered, kingless, bleeding," Ulfric murmured to himself. Miel shivered. Where had she heard those words before?

"If it is as you say," the Jarl began, "if Alduin was to return, a Dragonborn was always to meet him. And perhaps we would still have met. Perhaps we were always destined to cross paths, if not blades."

A lump rose in Miel's throat. In another life, perhaps, she would have fought under blue banners instead of red.

"We don't need to fight, Jarl Ulfric. Sue for peace," she urged. "Let these people return to their families while there is still time. If I fail, there will be precious little left."

Ulfric stared at her for what felt like an age.

"I issued this challenge, Dragonborn. My honor demands that I follow. If my time is short, if I have shortened it myself by facing you, then at least I fight for a free Skyrim to the last." He gestured at the soldiers arrayed around them. "And they can decide how to spend their time afterward."

He drew his axe. Miel drew her swords, steel and bound.

"Last chance, Dragonborn!" he then bellowed, loud enough for all gathered to hear. "Join the side of your people! Let all of Tamriel see that the legend born among us, a daughter of Skyrim, a child of Whiterun, defends her homeland from those unworthy to rule her!"

"Strange," she replied, playing her part. "That's precisely what I've been doing all along."

She pulled a grim smile, and Ulfric lunged.

Steel rang against steel as they fought across the square. Shouts of "FUS!" broke through the clamor of the soldiers egging them on. Miel used no other Shout and summoned no aid besides the bound sword. He made no attempt to disarm her by Thu'um. She would give the Jarl of Windhelm a good death, in a fair fight.

His Voice was as strong as hers, though his known Words were few. In her bones, Miel tasted his decades of practice and lamented that they were foes. He could not greet her as she had greeted Paarthurnax, yet this was somehow better. He was human. Like her, Ulfric chose life in the world, on the ground. As her swords found the gaps in his armor, as his axe cut into her flesh, her heart broke for this unexpected loss. For a dov born to walk, not to fly, he was the closest she had to kin. In the songs to come of this fight, the bards and the skalds would mark how the Dragonborn wept.

The time was now. Ulfric dropped to a knee on the stones spattered with their mingled blood. A hush fell over the crowd, and tears streamed down many faces on both sides. He was stronger, more seasoned, more skilled, but she was younger, faster, and endured much through quick healing. Gasping for breath, teeth bloodied, face broken, he raised his eyes to Miel's and smiled.

Horns and clarions wailed from the towers of Mistveil Keep. A great shadow passed over the city. Miel saw the shape of wings and was overcome with rage. Not now. Not again.

"Dragon! Dragon!"

The cry of alarm was unnecessary, to her. The soldiers began to scatter. Galmar and Fasendil screamed to regain order. Still, she stood over Ulfric; still, she was poised to take his head.

Snarling, she backed away and ran in the direction the dragon had gone. The last she saw of the Jarl was as Galmar and his soldiers swept him to safety.

Miel pulled herself onto the roof of the Bee & Barb, and the dragon doubled back. No peaceable "Drem yol lok" between them, only a furious exchange of "FO!" and "YOL!" 

The roofs were close enough together for Miel to give chase, and from the stones and the planks, archers and atronachs from both sides of the war lent their support. Wherever the dragon landed, she was there, piercing between its scales the way she had pierced Ulfric in the market. Soldiers scaled the roofs and followed her lead. This beast, this interloper, had stolen their chance for peace.

The dragon crowed at her. Miel understood little — "battle", and "victory", and "Alduin". She could tell it was gloating, goading her, but she had passed the point of reason the moment she had seen its shadow.

She herded it toward the battlements, where soldiers waited with arrows, blades, and spells. She hounded it with Shouting and ran her sword along its belly when it swooped. It wrought upon Riften the destruction the siege had promised, the losses the duel would have prevented. Miel was beside herself, enraged at the cruelty of circumstance, still anguished by her fight with Ulfric, and remembering she was the reason the dragon had come. It had to end. All of it had to end. Gods, when would it end?

They were on the roof of Riftweald Manor now, and Miel plunged a bound sword into a reptilian eye. She saw the gleam in the other eye fade. Instead of frost, the throat yielded sputtering, wheezing — blood. She saw its shoulders move, saw it spread its wings and turn.

"No! No, you're not getting away!"

Miel launched herself off the roof and lodged her swords in the dragon's hide. It screamed, continuing to climb, nose to the sky. The city fell away.

Miel clung on, using her blades like picks on a mountain face to inch her way to the neck. The dragon banked hard to the right, losing her the steel sword, but she crooked an arm and a leg around its hard spines and bound herself a replacement. Already, she felt the dragon's life fading; already it sounded its final cries of regret. One more stab, one more puncture, and its soul would be hers.

The dragon rolled, and Miel shrieked, the swords flickering back to Oblivion as she lost her grip. Hands reached for spines, scales, anything to hold as they began to plummet back toward the ground.

She summoned a sword one last time and tore into the right wing, her own weight dragging the blade through to the edge as though it was nothing more than a sheet of cloth, and then she was free of it. The city rushed up to meet her; the dragon's body followed to crush her.

Now, neither of them would fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a tag re: canon compliance, in case it's not clear. Will also update the initial note/summary.
> 
> Paarthurnax's lines are from the game, and there's Ulfric's famous line about legends, too.
> 
> Always wanted to do a rooftop dragon fight in Riften.


	25. Chapter 25

The rumors from Riften were swift and brutal. The twins usually met Idolaf Battle-Born in the street, in a tavern, or at his home. Though their friend hoped to soften the blows, his mere arrival at the doors of Jorrvaskr was upsetting enough. His face, too, betrayed the gravity of the news he bore. Some of the rumors, it seemed, were true.

The first thing Vilkas looked for was a letter, with the red seal and border of official Legion stationery. But, Idolaf's hands were empty. Vilkas wasn't sure he preferred the uncertainty.

The entire company, with Vignar, Brill, and Tilma, gathered on the porch to hear what Idolaf had to relay, because the tales about Ulfric and the Dragonborn had been too incredible to swallow. Vilkas would have liked to hear it alone. Afterward, however, he had some gratitude; it spared him having to tell the others himself, over and over again.

"Bee and Ulfric decided to duel, to avoid losses and settle the conflict," Idolaf began. "Once the walls were breached, the Stormcloaks had no hope of holding the city. But by a fair duel, they might have won the entire war."

"Fair?" Athis asked. "Against the Dragonborn?"

"Did Tullius sanction this?" someone muttered.

"As fair as she could make it," Idolaf said. "It was clear soon after it began that she would win. But, Ulfric himself challenged her; it was unthinkable for him to yield."

"Damn right," Vignar called.

Across the porch, Farkas was leaning against a post, like Vilkas. Neither of them wanted to be close to the source of the news at the moment. Skjor poured Idolaf some ale, but Farkas hoarded a bottle to himself.

"Hadvar says she cried for him," Idolaf continued. "They'd talked — no one knows what about, but it must have gotten to her."

"Gods. I can't imagine crying over someone I'm about to kill," Ria breathed.

Vilkas caught his brother's eye. They knew what it looked like, from experience.

"She was about to cut him down for good when a dragon joined the fray. Hadvar says something inside her snapped. She abandoned Ulfric and chased the monster like a madwoman, running across the rooftops and breathing pure fire.

"When it was almost finished, it tried to escape, but she jumped onto its back. She fought it in the sky. Nearly rent one of its wings in two."

Astonished gasps rose from the company. Even Vilkas drew in his breath.

"Of course, with the dragon dying, there was nowhere for them to go but down. She crashed first into a stack of Plankside houses and Shouted something, but — nothing came out. The dragon landed on top of her, pulling a quarter of the city down with it. She was bur — buried alive."

"No!" Aela cried.

"They're searching the rubble for her, and by now, they'll be searching the lake, too. But it's been two days now," Idolaf said. His voice was as low as he could manage, without dropping to a complete whisper.

"The body," Farkas growled suddenly, "what happened to the dragon's body?"

"The dragon's body? Don't you mean — "

"Did it still have flesh, or did it leave only the bones?"

Vilkas shook his head. It didn't mean anything. Her own soul could have gone immediately afterward.

Idolaf furrowed his brow. "Bones. I think Hadvar mentioned the bones." He paused. "He said the flesh burned away before their eyes, after it fell."

Farkas leaned back against the post again with satisfaction. "Then it's good and dead."

Idolaf regarded him with pity. "Yes," he offered quietly. "There is that."

Farkas took a deep breath. Then, he drained his bottle, set it on the table, and headed toward the doors.

"Are you coming?" he asked Vilkas.

"To hunt?"

"To Riften. To find her."

"Farkas, you're not supposed to set foot outside Whiterun hold," Skjor warned.

"And you'll stop me?"

Vilkas studied his brother's face: smile tight, eyes wild. Many times before, he wished he had Farkas's hope. That night, he was glad he did not. Some part of him had been preparing for this day. Perhaps from the moment she set off from Whiterun with Balgruuf's axe, or the moment they parted at the Winking Skeever before the Thalmor party — or even earlier, when another soldier dressed in red walked out of Jorrvaskr, never to return — some part of Vilkas had known this was all he could hope for, all he could expect.

"Vilkas?"

He stared at his brother with nothing to say. Then, he dropped his gaze into his cup and drank.

Farkas looked away, refusing to understand. "No, it's all right," he decided. "Better you stay here, in case she comes home first."

"Farkas," Skjor began, but Kodlak held him back. It was no use. Farkas had been like this, too, after Jergen. The difference then was that he'd been too small and too young to get past the guards.

"Be careful," Vilkas blurted out. There was no telling what would happen. Vilkas thought of what awaited his brother in Riften, of the smell of blood and death that would hang over the war-torn city long after the bodies were cleared away. They were still a long way from control.

But, as Farkas had asked, who could stop him?

* * *

  
_Unslaad zii._

The taste of canal water. The feel of claws, and scales. The warmth of Black Marsh tea pouring down her throat.

_The spirit endures._

Orange eyes with slits, and green with circles. Red hair. Soft laughter. Arguing. Coughing. Pain. That was her. _That's me._

_Fade._

* * *

  
The number of pilgrims to the Temple of Kynareth increased soon afterward, more than Whiterun usually saw in spring and summer. People came to pray fervently for the Dragonborn's return, or to mourn the world they were about to lose. Some laid offerings at the Shrine of Talos as well; with Alduin of the final twilight on the wing, no one wasted their fear on Thalmor arrests.

Vilkas tried to avoid the temple and the Gildergreen if he could help it. Since meeting Hircine, he could not even get near the sanctuary doors without his head wanting to burst. But now, the crowds spilling out around the long dormant tree only symbolized a grief he was desperate to deny, to bury.

They were there, day and night. Their hymns and chanting echoed even into the mead hall. Vilkas began to take his meals in the lower mess, or to stew in a dark corner of the Drunken Huntsman to escape the sound.

The spirit of impending death spread through the city. It seemed half the people were grieving, and the other half, determined to drink and fight and screw like there was no tomorrow. That was actually likely now. Vilkas now had plenty of company in the taverns after his hunts, but he felt even worse than before. He came to blows with other patrons enough times that barkeeps began to warn others away, or to stop him at the threshold from coming in.

He was not the only one displaced by the loss of the Dragonborn. Lucia had taken to morosely wandering the streets with Coppertail and Tirdas alone. Sofie could busy herself with her apprenticeship; in fact, she threw herself into her work with more determination than ever, knowing it was something her mother had wanted for her. Lucia, however, had been left to simply be a child, and she was suddenly adrift.

As the pilgrims to Kynareth increased, the girl found herself crowded out of her favorite spot by the Gildergreen. There were too many well-meaning strangers who wished to express their condolences to the Dragonborn's daughter. Lydia had to keep watch outside of Breezehome to shoo more busybodies away. It was too much for the child to bear.

So, it was not long before Lucia began haunting the edges of Jorrvaskr's yard. She stayed out of the fighters' way and was silent, playing half-heartedly with the animals or watching the sparring bouts, but her presence could not be ignored.

Vilkas hated the look in her eyes because it was too raw. Too familiar. Yet, he could not send her away. Nowhere else was free of pitying looks and forced conversation. No matter how her open grief threatened to unleash his own, he knew how it felt, too, for Jorrvaskr to seem the safest place in the world. She had asked for Uncle Farkas at first but had stayed to watch him put the new bloods through their paces, and as no one objected, she returned the following day, and the day after that.

Finally, Vilkas made himself talk to her, even if he was a sorry stand-in for his brother. He was simply the one who was there.

She was grateful for simple tasks: doing the marketing with him when Tilma drew up her shopping list, the two of them filling up the basket in sullen silence; taking dictation from Kodlak when he did his reading — it was good practice for her writing; learning to shape arrowheads and fletch arrows with Aela; and playing second arbiter in the yard.

"Did you count how many times Torvar hit me just now?" Vilkas would ask. "Was it any more than this morning?"

He wasn't sure if it helped. He couldn't cook as well as Farkas, couldn't play a tune, and couldn't comfort by making light and offering hugs. He could read aloud for hours. He could play chess. He could answer questions about animals — every living thing in Skyrim — and teach a child to tell time and place from the stars. On the night Farkas would have relieved Lydia of dinner duties, he took both Sofie and Lucia to Jorrvaskr and let Tilma pass on her own secrets instead.

This was nothing, he knew. He was simply the one who was there.

As soon as the girls returned to Breezehome again, he went out to hunt. He still had to hunt every night, still had to change and run and chase and feed. Aela and Skjor had given up trying to rein him and his brother in, but at least before Idolaf's news, they followed Kodlak and stayed in Whiterun hold.

Now, Vilkas found himself tempted at the edges of the Pale. Vilkas the man pretended acceptance, but Vilkas the wolf sniffed the air desperately for phantom traces of her, or his brother.

A week or so after Idolaf came, Vilkas saw his brother standing on Heljarchen Rise. Farkas howled, long and earnest, pleading, and Vilkas howled back, but he didn't follow. For once, he agreed with the man in his blood about something. There was prey enough in the lands around their den. The hollow by the springs was still his favorite spot. He needed to stay close. He had something to guard.

When he changed back, Vilkas still craved his post-hunt diversions, but more and more, he put them off for as long as he could. It wasn't simply the unwelcome attention — or his being unwelcome — at Whiterun's watering holes. He ran far as a wolf so that he would have a long walk home as a man, alone, under moons and stars, or rain. He found himself scanning the fields for things to talk about — the dance of luna moths, the diet of larval torchbugs, the growth of a new fawn, the way the Mage was giving way in the sky to the Shadow. When he finally reached the Huntsman, he drank just enough so that he could practice the words in his head: "Last night, I saw a doe with her baby." The barmaids began to complain he was distracted, until one of them mentioned Riften, and he left without a word.

* * *

  
Silver gleamed in the mud as Farkas stripped a hunter of his cuirass. It would be a tight fit, but this man had been the biggest of the group already; it was the best he could do. He cursed at the sight of his own armor, pieces bent beyond recognition and scattered among the corpses.

Eorlund would probably charge him double for the repairs this time. He'd point out it was Farkas's fault for leaving Whiterun at all.

"Might be cheaper to ask Adrianne to do it," he muttered. Then, he shook his head. The old man always knew, when it came to steel.

Farkas sighed and swung his arms, checking how far he could move, but he already knew this dead man's armor would chafe in the worst places. Whoever smithed for the Silver Hand could spend a little less time on their blades, perhaps, and a little more on their armor.

But then, they might not be so easy to kill. "Maybe I'll consider myself lucky," Farkas said, inspecting the hunter's boots. Only fur and some loose iron greaves. Blast. But, he had no other choice now, did he?

He was talking to himself. How long had he been out here, alone? The last person he'd spoken to was that mage in the ice, and their exchange could hardly be called a conversation, too.

_"Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep. Tower Mzark."_

Farkas knew where that was, based on some map he had seen in the mage's papers — the mage hadn't cared about him pawing through them; so transfixed had the old man been by the contraption he roomed with. But, once he got to Mzark, Farkas couldn't find a way past the gate.

There were levers he could reach with a long enough branch, but they refused to budge, no matter how much of his strength he put in. He ended up breaking a lot of branches. The bars were slightly dented from an attempt to break them with his wolf weight, but they were intact. There was some mechanism, some puzzle to it, he suspected, but Vilkas had already refused to help.

In any case, her scent wasn't there. She hadn't been there yet. Maybe this was where she would come out.

Still, to be sure, he had taken to going in circles, like the spellswords the Legion had sent to track her. He always found himself back at this ruin near Mount Anthor. By now, her scent at the doors was fading, and he was trying not to panic about it. She had fought a dragon nearby, though he could not tell how long ago that was. In this part of Skyrim where it snowed even to the edges of summer, and summer only meant the snow became rain, any dragon blood spilled here had been covered or washed out.

Farkas thought the rain was worse; it ran under one's collar and chilled the bones. Bee didn't have her armor, either. That was what the soldiers had said, the last time he spied on them. He didn't like the idea of her shivering out here, chasing whatever she was chasing. He hoped she had found an alternative better than his at the moment, and that she had gotten somewhere warm. Inside this ruin, most likely. Her scent called him here, and these things still had steam coming out of them long after the Dwemer had all gone.

The wind carried voices and an excited bark over to him, from the Wayward Pass in the south. The soldiers would catch up to him soon. Farkas quickly gathered his pack — straps torn, too, damn it — his sword, and what other bits of armor he could carry, and he looked for a place to hide.

If he went into the ruin, there was no telling what unhappy surprises he'd find inside; that was the first reason he had not gone in yet. The second reason was his blood. He had not yet gone a night without hunting. He did not know whether there was anything to hunt in there. He did not like the idea of tracking Bee hungry through a booby-trapped ruin. Following her for gods knew how long, his wolf spirit was developing certain expectations.

The block-like keep on the ridge — that was where the Silver Hand had come from. That was out, too. But, he made a note of it to tell the others when he got home.

Finally, he spotted a crevice and slid down it without another thought. If they cared more about finding Bee than about a bunch of beast hunters lying dead in the mud, the soldiers wouldn't follow. Maybe he'd be able to listen again.

The last time, he learned that they still thought she was underground; that was why they were still going back and forth, across the Pale and Winterhold like this. They still couldn't tell what state she was in. No matter their skill, Farkas had learned, these Legion spellswords could not say whether they were tracking a living being, a body being carried away by currents, or a ghost questing after unfinished business. She was too deep below range for "life detection".

If their hound could speak, it would have told them what Farkas knew by scent alone: that a corpse didn't take herself to see the mage in the ice. She was alive. She had come this way. She would come out again.

This last bit lacked evidence, he admitted, but the belief kept him out here, day and night. Oddly, it had made the beast in his blood a bit more cooperative of late. A hunt was a hunt, and the wolf did like her smell, so very much. Feeding — on deer, on horker, on — ah, the hunter just now; that was bad — feeding was secondary, really, when he thought only of this endless hunt.

Farkas sighed as he yanked on the dead hunter's boots, then grimaced as they pinched his toes. Above him, the soldiers cried alarm at the scene he had left behind. Best that he got away from this place now, in case they tried to track him.

Maybe he ought to go back to the iceberg; the mage had seemed expectant that she would return there with — with whatever it was he'd told her to find. Farkas hoped the mage's ramblings had made more sense to her at least. Maybe he ought to go back to Mzark and try again. Maybe Vilkas would be near Heljarchen again, too, and he could coax his brother to join him this time.

Or, maybe it was time he went home and simply asked Eorlund for one of his reserve sets; Farkas had some gold set aside for such emergencies. After this, it would be a wonder if Kodlak ever gave back his wolf armor.

Farkas grit his teeth as he left the soldiers behind again. Wherever he was going, he hoped he could make it there without having to bite his toes off.

* * *

  
Within a fortnight of his first visit, Idolaf returned looking even more solemn. He asked to speak with Vilkas alone. Vilkas had already heard rumors, whether he wanted or not, in every inn and tavern that still took him, in the streets, and even in Jorrvaskr, if Ria or Torvar had been gossiping. On seeing Idolaf again, however, he knew he dreaded news from a man in red more than anything.

Most of the rubble where Miel and the dragon had fallen had been cleared away, but the Dragonborn herself was still nowhere to be found. Some claimed she had slipped — or been taken — into the warren of tunnels beneath the city, where she was likely beset by thugs. Others thought she had been swept into Lake Honrich to be devoured by slaughterfish. Still more believed that the gods had simply taken her, body and soul, to Sovngarde where she belonged.

The Legion's clairvoyants were put on the case, but their efforts were imprecise. It was easier for the spell to latch onto an object, but Miel had lost her blades in the fighting, and Argonian fishermen's children were found playing with her armor along the lakeshore. All of them claimed the pieces had simply washed up sometime after the aborted siege.

Casting for Quaestor Miel Guillaume herself led strangely north. So, as soon as the known objects were exhausted, north was where the trackers went. North gave Legate Rikke hope; she disclosed that the Dragonborn had intended to go to Winterhold.

Vilkas fought down all impulses to hope himself. He had been through this and seen what hope had gotten him before.

Again, the first thing he looked for, when Idolaf appeared in the yard, was a letter. This time, it was there. Vilkas did not need to read it to know what it said. Legion stationery had not changed much in 30 years.

It hurt him more to know that Miel had listed him to receive such a letter in the first place.

Idolaf apologized for his errand, but Vilkas knew better than to blame his friend. He had been expecting this, after all. He took the letter and wordlessly slipped it into his belt.

"Have you heard from your brother recently?" Idolaf then asked.

Farkas?

Vilkas furrowed his brow. What had Farkas gotten himself into this time?

"No," he answered, absently taking and replacing the training weapons on the racks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Njada hustling Lucia inside.

Idolaf sighed, frustration mixing now with his regret. "I had hoped — well. Before they, uh, called off the search, our trackers kept finding traces of him wherever they went, and the last one well and truly spooked them."

"Traces?"

Idolaf hesitated. "Remains of beasts. And the other night, a pack of hunters. With silver swords."

Vilkas felt his blood rising. "That damned fool — "

"Our soldiers didn't know it was him," Idolaf said quickly. "I just had a feeling myself, from the report. If they hadn't decided to quit, I would have asked him to lend them his cooperation. In his own skin, of course. It's just, he always seemed to be one step ahead."

Vilkas couldn't be proud if his brother was being careless. Still —

"If I manage to get in touch with him, will they continue the search?" he asked.

Idolaf looked away, and that was all the answer Vilkas needed.

"The boat gave us all hope, but it's a dead end. Everything is now a dead end."

Following Rikke's clues, the trackers had latched their spells onto boats that had left Dawnstar for Winterhold, but all were accounted for by now. Most of them had been trade barges that had since returned or gone on to Windhelm. One had been reported stolen and then found sunk in the ice fields north of the College. All they found there was a madman babbling about dwarves and darkness.

"The hound they had with them was excited about the spot, but they think now that it was all the dead horkers," Idolaf added.

Vilkas snorted. Farkas loved horker meat.

"The prevailing theory is that some hidden channels from the rivers have swept her underground," Idolaf continued, "somewhere too deep for their spells to detect life. They think currents are simply carrying her — body — back and forth, through whatever caverns are down there."

Vilkas felt his grip tighten around the handle of the training axe. Slowly, he forced himself to unclench his hand and replace the weapon on the rack.

"They won't send anyone down to confirm?" he asked testily. "There are Dwemer ruins all over the place; they can go down for fathoms. There must be a way down."

He could feel Idolaf's pity, even if he didn't meet his friend's eyes.

"Castle Dour is debating it," Idolaf said quietly, "but they've already lost an expedition down there, looking for treasure to help pay for the war. It's — it's not looking likely."

Vilkas bristled. "Surely, now that the truce is assured, Tullius can spare a few units to retrieve her. Her resting place can't be — "

He choked back his words. Acknowledging it, accepting it was almost too easy. 

She had left him with a kiss in Ivarstead, at the bottom of the 7,000 Steps, with a promise to join him and Farkas in Whiterun again. Even then, Vilkas had felt it was more farewell than promise, but some part of him — the only part of him he fought harder than the wolf — had cupped that promise like a candle flame. For that, for everything, she deserved to finally come home.

Maybe it was time he went after his brother. They'd find her together. They'd bring her back, in whatever condition she was in, though he hated to imagine what that might be.

"There's something else," Idolaf said. The softness of his voice filled Vilkas with even more dread. "Now that they've properly declared her missing, they'll be asking her father to take the girls. If he can't, they'll be sent to Honorhall — "

"To Riften? In the state it's in?!"

"Well, only if no one else — "

"Of course there'll be someone else!" Vilkas blurted out. Immediately, his heart dropped into his stomach, and he wanted to vomit. But, there was no question. He'd be damned if the girls were forced to live in the place their mother had fallen.

Idolaf blinked, then tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder. "They wouldn't be the first children to stay at Jorrvaskr." He smiled faintly. "Lydia maintains stewardship of Breezehome until they come of age; they can keep living there, but — "

"I know what you mean." Vilkas shrugged off his friend's hand.

He was the wrong man for this; he was not very good at giving them what they needed. But it would be better than Honorhall. And once his brother came home, good Uncle Farkas could take over, and they'd have a proper — a proper father. Vilkas wouldn't mind still reading to them, though. And Lucia was practically a fixture at Jorrvaskr now.

Idolaf gently nudged him. He had one more blow to deliver. Vilkas watched him pull out one more letter, and the Legion liaison sucked in a breath.

"This one is for them. I'm supposed to give it to Lydia, but — maybe it will be easier if it comes from you."

Vilkas was wrong. There was something worse than receiving bad news. It was bringing it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a bit tricky to write. Farkas and Vilkas receive similar information at different times and have different reactions, so I wasn't sure how much redundancy was tolerable. I hope I've trimmed it enough.
> 
> Snippets of game dialogue from Paarthurnax and Septimus Signus have been used here.
> 
> Farkas's brief run-in with the Silver Hand was inspired by looking at the UESP map and noticing that Driftshade Refuge is actually not that far from Alftand. None of the Hearthfire houses have been built in this story, so I just imagined that the house in the Pale takes its name from the landmark/area it occupies. Hence, "Heljarchen Rise".


	26. Chapter 26

Farkas emerged from the Underforge to the sound of keening and song. In the yard, Njada and Torvar dropped their bout to stare at him in shock.

"Uncle Farkas!"

A little ball of arms and legs slammed into him, followed by the yapping of her excitable dog.

"Did you find her?" Lucia cried. "Is she here? I told them you would find her! I told Uncle Vilkas they were wrong!"

She whipped her tear-streaked face around him to look, but the door to the Underforge had already slid closed. Slowly, she backed away, into Vilkas, who put his hands on her shoulders. The wailing in the air persisted. What was going on at the temple?

"I haven't found her yet, little fox, but I will," Farkas said. He sat on the ground, kicked off the damned boots, and leaned against the stone panel in relief. "I just came to get new armor."

Vilkas was staring at him angrily. That was just typical.

"What happened to your old armor?" Lucia asked. "Where did you get this one? It looks — bad."

"I, ah, got it from a friend of an old friend. He didn't need it anymore. But, you can see it doesn't fit me very well, which is why I needed to come back. Have you been good?"

"Farkas," his brother warned.

He began to undo the awful chestpiece. He groaned in satisfaction as the straps loosened. "What's all that noise by the Gildergreen? Did — did they end Heimskr's sentence early?"

Lucia grew anxious and knelt before him. "That's all the people praying because the world is getting eaten," she said. "They think Mama's gone. Even the Legion — they gave me and Sofie a letter." She sniffled, placing a sticky hand over his.

Farkas's heart dropped like a stone.

"No. No, it's too soon." He pulled the cuirass over his head and tossed it aside so that he could wipe the child's face, only to smear even more grime across her cheeks.

"We got one, too," Vilkas said coldly.

Farkas shook his head as he pulled the little girl to his chest and stroked her hair. "No. They've given up too easily! I know she's alive down there. I just — I can't go in alone."

"She's alive?" Lucia cried. "You've seen her?"

Now, Njada and Torvar dropped all pretense of talking on their own.

"I — haven't. But, I know she's alive." He looked pleadingly at his brother. "I know."

Vilkas's anger twisted with disbelief. "Are you certain?" he hissed.

"Yes!" Farkas cried. "I've been where she's been. I've been where those soldiers have been. I think I know where she'll come out again. There's a Dwemer gate near Heljarchen Rise; I just need your brains to — "

His brother cut him off with an angry growl. "Listen, Farkas." Vilkas attempted to pry Lucia away from him, but the girl resisted. "Don't get the child's hopes up with these fantasies. They had spellswords. They had a hound with them. They would have — "

"You're saying a hound is better than us?" Farkas snarled.

Vilkas's eyes flashed. "Watch it."

Tirdas was barking furiously in circles around their feet. The crowd outside the temple changed their song.

Farkas narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Don't tell me you believe the letter, too."

"What makes you think it's different from the last one?" Vilkas replied.

Farkas shook his head.

"If you believe the letter," he said quietly, "then you believe in her even less than you did in our father."

He saw his brother's fingers curl into a fist, but with Lucia between them, that punch would have to wait. Vilkas seethed.

"Don't you — dare — mention that man — not in the same breath — "

"But, I'm right, aren't I?" Farkas retorted.

"Don't fight," Lucia whined.

"Uh, Lucia." Torvar had come to stand a few paces away. The young man rubbed uneasily at the blonde tufts on his chin. "I think Skjor's back with those feathers for Aela. You want to go in and pick the good ones for your new arrows?"

Njada nodded vigorously next to him, and Farkas released his grip.

"What's this? New arrows for you? Go on," he said to the girl's uncertain eyes. "Uncle Vilkas and I will have a talk, and then I'm going to get cleaned up. Then, you can tell me what you've been up to."

Over Lucia's protests, Njada hooked her by the armpits and began to pull her away. Farkas watched them quizzically as they stumbled back into the mead hall, with Torvar bringing up the rear.

"Five months ago, the Stonearm would have bitten her head off for getting in the way. What's going on?"

"You've missed a lot these past few weeks," Vilkas muttered, "like the fact that these might be the girls' last days in Whiterun. So, I'd appreciate it if you didn't give Lucia nonsense ideas about — Farkas, do not make it harder for her to leave."

Farkas's head spun. "What are you talking about?"

Vilkas sighed deeply. "Their grandfather — her next of kin — " He swallowed. "Go clean up first. Then we'll talk."

* * *

  
The lift came to a stop with a sigh, and Miel greedily gulped down the first fresh air she'd had in — gods, how long had she been down there? She staggered to her feet and sagged against the bars of the gate. Tears sprang into her eyes as she realized that was the open sky out there, and the lights were the stars themselves, not the pale imitation of glowing mushrooms on a cavern ceiling. She laughed aloud as she gripped the attunement sphere, pulled on the lever, and stepped onto the grass beyond.

She got on her knees and buried her nose in the soft blades, inhaling their sweet, sharp green scent. Then, she stretched out, prostrate, and rubbed them against her cheek. She peeled off a glove and ran her fingers through the grass like it was the hair of a lover.

"Praise the Nine," she croaked, tears streaming from her eyes.

The frost atronach stood silently by, which told her she was safe. Slowly, Miel pushed herself up and drew back to sit. She pulled back the hood she wore and ran her hand through her sweat-drenched hair.

"I never want to enter another cave or barrow as long as I live."

Glancing up at the sky again — blessed sky! — she gained her bearings and laughed some more. Whiterun was but a few hours' walk away.

Feeling for the scroll on her back, Miel got to her feet. She still was not used to its weight, because it sometimes felt like non-weight. She could touch it, grip it, yet it seemed as though it would slide away at any moment. She hadn't even read it yet; her eyes seemed to itch at the mere thought.

"No wonder Septimus was mad," she muttered to herself.

Her aching feet carried her south, and sure enough, beyond the creaking blades of an old mill, she spied the spires of Dragonsreach. A lump rose in her throat. The girls would be asleep by now. The twins would probably be hunting, or drinking. The atronach disappeared with a crackle, and she laughed softly to herself as she began to walk again, the distant twinkle of flames from the city lending strength to her legs. Where would they be tonight? she wondered. Should she walk into the Hunstman or the Mare and surprise them? She probably wouldn't make it past Breezehome, though. The thought of her own bed made her groan aloud.

She put her hood up again before she reached Whitewatch Tower and kept walking, past the guards, past the farms. She couldn't help looking with love upon the city walls, upon the curve of Jorrvaskr, as she drew closer. There was a strange echo coming from the city; it seemed brighter and louder than she remembered. But, perhaps that was only because she had been in the dark for so long.

She still had one more stop to make.

Her stomach growled at the smell of honey as Miel approached the meadery. Gods, she was starving. Inside, there'd be real food. She'd had enough mushrooms and algae to last a lifetime, and chaurus tasted as awful as it looked.

A sallow-skinned man with a pinched-looking face and stringy, greasy dark hair straightened up as she entered. No late-night patrons at Honningbrew now. That was good.

The man's eyes narrowed. "I know that armor, but I don't know your face. You're not one of us."

"Mallus Maccius?" Miel pulled the hood away for what she hoped was the last time tonight. She truly enjoyed feeling fresh air around her face, the light and warmth of a hearth fire, the smell of barrels and drink. It was almost too much. "I think Horns-of-Pearl and Brynjolf told you to expect me."

The man grew even paler, which Miel thought impossible. "The Dragonborn. Of course." Then, his gaze hardened again. "I was told to expect payment as well."

"Of course," she echoed.

Miel cracked a smile and began to empty the belt of pouches slung across her chest. In exchange for fishing her out of Plankside, healing her, and lending her some of their armor, the leaders of the Thieves Guild had requested a sizable cut of whatever treasure she found along with her mystery "artifact". Mallus's eyes bulged out of their sockets as she created a little pile of gems, jewelry, and ingots on the bar.

"And I'll be mailing them an itemized list, so don't even think about taking a cut of the cut," she said.

"I would never," he replied sulkily, sweeping the small hoard into a sack behind the counter.

He added, "I'm glad you finally decided to show your face. Lady Black-Briar was getting tired of us turning patrons away. The end of the world has been good for business all around, and this branch of the meadery has been missing out."

Miel barely heard him over the gurgle of her empty belly. "Pearl said you'll have a change of clothes for me in one of your guest rooms — ?" She put up a good stack of coins and topped it with an amethyst from another pouch. "Could you draw me a bath, too? And what have you got to eat?"

Mallus rolled his shoulders, pressed his fingers together, and took on a more servile smile, though it hardly improved his air. Miel's mouth began to water as he went through the late-night menu.

"I'll take one of everything, but hold the mushrooms," she said. "Bring it to the room. And a bottle of the 196 cyser, too."

The barkeep pursed his lips. "I'm sorry, madam. This is the Black-Briar Meadery West. We don't keep any of the swill from Honningbrew around here anymore."

Miel didn't break his gaze as she slipped another gemstone out of her pocket and placed it on the bar.

"The 196, of course!" Mallus said brightly. "An excellent choice. Please, have some complimentary fruit and cheese to start. I'll see about that bath."

Miel grabbed a handful of berries and crammed them into her mouth before the plate even landed on the bar. She moaned at the first bite, savoring the tart little morsels as they burst between her teeth. Mallus's eyes widened in shock, but she didn't care.

"Well," he said. He filled a mug from one of the barrels lining the wall behind him. "Enjoy a cup of our new White River Black while you wait. Excuse me, please."

Miel ignored him as he left her alone at the bar. She scarfed down some peach slices and followed them with a piece of Eidar cheese. Its pungent saltiness brought out a grunt of pleasure, and she imagined herself sinking into a tub of steaming water scented with chamomile and mint. She was nearly home, but perhaps she would rest here for a spell. Nothing would make the end of her long journey better.

* * *

  
Nothing would make this night worse. Farkas sighed as he dropped down from the ledge onto the entrance of White River Watch, where he and Vilkas had stowed their gear before their hunt. No matter how hard he tried, in this skin or the other, he could not get his brother to follow him to Heljarchen Rise. Instead, they'd hunted here in the Throat foothills, within Whiterun's borders like Kodlak had asked, and Farkas felt it had all fallen short of his expectations.

His wolf spirit was restless. This mountain made him uneasy, made his head hurt. He had not felt the usual joy he had when he hunted with his brother. The buck they'd taken down had been filling, but it had been old, barely able to put up a fight, and chewy. And his mind — his human mind — had distracted him with thoughts of the mess they were in.

 _Missing in action, presumed dead._ It seemed half of Skyrim was doing the presuming part, judging by how Whiterun was now overrun with pilgrims and drunks.

In Bee's absence, the Empire and the Stormcloaks had finally brokered a truce. Tullius was in disgrace for diverting the Dragonborn to Riften. Without her, Ulfric was now the only one with any hope of learning the lost Shout, and all of Skyrim now supported him in the attempt to discover it. Scholars were scouring their libraries for some clue of the Words, as well as the artifact Bee was supposed to find. The Jarl of Windhelm, meanwhile, was due to climb to High Hrothgar for the first time since his youth, in the hopes the Greybeards had forgiven him enough to tell him what they had told her. But, even if they helped him, he didn't have her blood; Skyrim would have to pray Alduin allowed him the years it would take to master even the first Word of the Shout. Things didn't look good for Nirn.

And if they didn't find Bee, her father was going to take Sofie and Lucia to live with him in High Rock. Farkas would adopt them at the drop of a hat, and to his surprise, his brother was willing, too. But by all accounts, including Bee's own, Captain Guillaume Desmarais was a good father and a decent man. There was no question he would send for the girls if he didn't come to collect them himself. They would grow up — or see the end of days — in the same city their mother had known as a young woman herself. And once again, Farkas and his brother would be left behind.

He huffed as he pulled his shirt over his head. Maybe Vilkas was right. Maybe he hoped too much. Maybe she had gone into the ruin alive and no longer — was. Vilkas was at least inclined to retrieve her, but not just yet. Maybe, at least for now, it would be better to just make sure the girls' last days in Whiterun were as happy as possible. Maybe the world really was meant to end, and Farkas was meant to see it alone.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and for the first time in a long while, he caught a glimpse of sympathy in his brother's eyes. Not entirely alone.

"Come on," Vilkas said quietly. "The city taverns are a little crowded these days. What do you say we stop by the meadery instead?"

Farkas pulled on his trousers. "Torvar said they've been closed since — since Riften. Something about the Black-Briars reassessing."

"I know, but — " His brother nodded at the cluster of buildings across the river. "The lamps in the guest house are lit," he said. "Seems something's changed."

* * *

  
Miel hummed an old song to herself as she set the bottle of mead back on the floor, next to the tub. She truly loved the 196. If she offered another bribe, would Mallus let her take some of the stock home? It seemed a shame to let Maven erase what was arguably Honningbrew's best batch from existence.

She filled a dipper with scented water and slowly poured it over her head, one hand massaging her tired scalp. By Milady's favor, she could soak in this tub forever. She gently squeezed the water out of her hair and sat back against the wooden planks in contentment, then lowered herself so that her nose was just above the surface.

There was a commotion at the door, and it burst open, banging against the wall.

"How long have you been here?!"

"Really, Companions, this is most — "

"Everyone thinks you're dead!"

"I am sorry, madam, I tried to stop them — sirs, I told you we were closed for a private — "

"Bloody Shor, Bee, I went all the way to the ice fields for you!"

"Lady Dragonborn, my most sincere apologies for this disgraceful intrusion — "

"Your children think you're dead!"

"FAAS!"

With a shriek, Mallus jumped and ran back out the door. Farkas and Vilkas flinched but remained where they were, looking more angry than anything else.

"Of course not," Miel muttered to herself. Of course fear didn't work on these two.

She sat up again, reached for a nub of bread on one of the little tables, and nibbled at it as she looked at the twins, then dropped her eyes onto the surface of the water. She drew her knees closer, letting the tops of them peek out of the water as she hugged them to her chest.

They began to talk at once — angry, pacing — but none of the words came through.

She felt her whole body flush as she realized how long it had been since they'd seen it. The last time was in Solitude, before everything went to Oblivion in a four-horse carriage. Before she knew what they were. Before the Thalmor party. Before Alduin's Wall. Before Hircine's clearing. Before Alftand and the cavern below. Before.

She had thought about it — Dibella, Mara, Kyne, had she thought about it! — on the slopes of the Throat of the World, as she made her way down from High Hrothgar. In the barracks of Fort Greenwall, the night before the red troops marched on Riften. Amid the merciless winds of Winterhold, as she shivered with every step to and from Septimus's outpost. Against the cold stone walls of Alftand, and in the lonely depths of Blackreach. She had thought about what she would do when she came home to them again.

What would it be like, to feel their touch, knowing this time what they were? Would it be different, knowing they had nothing left to hold back or hide? Would she want it? Was it still love? Or, was her body only warming to a memory? Only seeking the closest comfort against the looming threat of the end? 

Vilkas swallowed. Clearly, they had sensed — what had he called it? — the change in the air. Both men were silent again.

"I'm very upset," he said quietly, picking at the crust of a half-eaten pie. "Before I pull you out of that water and do — unspeakable things to you, I think it's best if you explain."

There was a timid knocking at the door.

"Madam?" came Mallus's voice. "Are — are you all right? I don't know what came over me. Shall I call the guards?"

Miel laughed weakly. "I'm fine," she called back, her voice shaking. "I — I think we'll need more mead."

"The strongest you have," Farkas added. He was eyeing the bottle of cyser. "But leave it at the door."

He was fast, but Miel was closer. She snatched up the 196 and hugged it to herself.

"No!" she cried. "This one's my favorite, and I've had nothing but mushrooms, algae soup, and meditation for days!"

"Weeks," Vilkas said.

"This one's mine! Weeks?" A chill passed through her chest. "Did you say weeks?"

"He did."

Farkas dropped himself on the floor by the tub, dipped his fingers, and flicked water at her with a scowl. "I've been dry for a while myself, because of you."

Miel felt her cheeks grow hot, then cursed herself for thinking of the meanings. She frowned back at him and took a mocking pull from the bottle. 

"Akatosh took it," she muttered. "I didn't mean to be gone that long. You say everyone thinks I'm dead?"

"We got letters," Vilkas said evenly, though his eyes revealed his fury. "Your children got letters. Your father will get a letter by next week."

"No." Miel choked in horror. "No, I didn't want this. I only wanted a few days' head start to find the scroll, before Tullius pulled me back into the stupid war. No, it can't have been that long."

"The stupid war is over," Farkas said. "The Empire's made up with the Stormcloaks so Ulfric can take on Alduin."

"You're joking."

But her thoughts were on her poor father, still nursing his broken heart after Agda's death. Sofie, already orphaned by war, and Lucia, already cast off after a mother's passing. And the twins — 

Miel was pierced with guilt. She slid against the wall of the tub and tried to shrink into the water.

"Hey," Farkas said, edging close enough to put a hand on her knee. He then brushed her cheek with his knuckle and laughed softly to himself.

"You're real," he whispered, forgetting his thought completely, grinning as he blinked back tears. Miel pressed her face against his hand.

Vilkas's eyes roved to the ceiling. "Everyone thought you were dead," he said hoarsely. "Everyone."

"But I didn't die," Miel insisted. Forgetting her shyness, she rose and wrapped a cloth around herself. "I Shouted. Became spirit before the dragon fell on top of me. I slipped through — everything, I — I went to sleep. And then Pearl found me, pulled me into the Ratway, and patched me up. When I came to, Brynjolf said everyone was still looking for me, but it had only been a day. And all I could think about was getting to Winterhold before they found me again."

She stepped out of the bath. "I didn't know," she said, begging Vilkas to look at her. "I went underground, actually under the ground, Vilkas. There's no sun there. No light from the sky. I didn't know how to read the Dwemer clocks, or if they were even working. I had no way of knowing how long I'd been gone. Couldn't even tell by my own hunger, because when I couldn't eat, all I had was my own breath, and I didn't even know where the air was coming from."

_Fade._

"That's why you're so thin," Farkas murmured.

"Vilkas — "

He grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed her against his body until she gasped. His fingers found their way through her wet hair. She felt him shaking; his breath was ragged.

"I'm sorry," Miel said, wet hands sliding over wet cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean — "

Vilkas crushed her mouth with his, and Miel's legs nearly gave way beneath her, with the weight of all his grief. "I'm sorry," she kept saying, when he let her. "I'm sorry. I'm — sorry."

Silently, Farkas got up, opened the door, took the tray before Mallus could set it down, and then closed the door in the man's face. He turned the key behind him and left it in the lock.

"I'm sorry," Vilkas echoed. "I should have believed in you."

Miel caught the look that passed between the brothers. Farkas nodded solemnly as he approached with the fresh cups.

"You're so thin," he complained again, handing his brother a drink. "No wonder you ordered all this food." He rolled his free palm over her shoulder and squeezed as he and Vilkas touched cups. They knocked them back before she could reply.

Quietly, Miel pulled away. Someone playfully tugged on the cloth around her body, but she ignored it and took a linen shirt from the stack of spare clothes. From the stitching, she realized with a shock that these were her own clothes, out of her dresser at Breezehome, though there was a pearl-headed pin she didn't recognize at first. "Damned Horns-of-bloody-Pearl," she grumbled, slipping the shirt over her head. Lydia would have to take a close inventory of everything in the house when Miel got back.

She put on a pair of hunter's trousers as well and settled onto the foot of the bed, and her fingers began to work through the wet tangles of her hair. She took a few breaths to steady her heart. "What's waiting for me in Whiterun?" she asked. "What will I need to fix?"

Farkas and Vilkas came to sit on either side of her. Wearily, Vilkas began to tell her how everything had unfolded from their point of view. She did her best not to interject, heart sinking all the while as he painted a picture of the mess her disappearance had created. Farkas described his own search for her, and Miel marveled at how close he had come. Afterward, she filled in the gaps, beginning with her escape from Riften and ending with her arrival at the meadery.

By then, Vilkas had encircled her waist and pulled her back toward the pillows, Farkas had entwined one of her legs with his, and she was yawning under the lowness of their voices, the warmth of their closeness, and the soft, soothing repetition of someone rubbing her arm. A hundred apologies were exchanged between them, with a thousand guilty tears and not nearly enough shushing kisses.

"I need to go home," she mumbled. "I need to show the girls that I'm all right. I need the Legate in the Cloud District to see my face, and he'll — " another yawn " — dispatch someone to tell my father."

"Shh."

"I'll take the scroll up the mountain and read it, and we can finally go after Alduin and — "

"Mm-hm?"

" — end this business for good."

Arms drew themselves across her chest and enclosed her from behind. Miel let herself lean, closing her eyes. Just for a moment.

"You just got here," Farkas whispered. "The girls won't wake for hours. We're not going to let you leave till you've gotten some rest."

Miel moaned softly in dissent, even as hot hands crept under her shirt to warm her ribcage. "I've already lost so much time underground."

"Precisely. You haven't finished your food," Vilkas teased. "Even Farkas can't make a pie crust this flaky."

"It's true."

"And this cheese," Vilkas said, "how long before tonight did you last have goat cheese, Bee?"

Miel felt faint laughter bubble out of her. "Come on, Vilkas."

"Ysmir's beard. Is that a 196 Honningbrew cyser?" Farkas said. "Well, if you don't want it — "

"Farkas," she protested weakly. Her body felt so heavy now.

"Yes?"

"Farkas, don't you dare."

She'd been walking for too long. That bath had been too warm, or she'd had too much to eat, or too much to drink. They were lying too close. Their arms were too big.

"Don't worry," Farkas whispered, "You won't sleep for long." Miel lamely smacked his thigh.

"Mm," Vilkas murmured into her hair. "I owe you those unspeakable things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, room service.
> 
> "Who the f is Pearl?"
> 
> I subscribe to the [theory](https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/do0497/theory_on_why_in_each_game_you_are_in_charge_of/f5jkngv/?utm_source=reddit&utm_medium=web2x&context=3) re: canon that the hero completes only the main quest and the DLC main quests. Faction quests are a player preference and can thus be done by any figure. So, in this story, Miel joined the Legion, and a female Argonian named Horns-of-Pearl (or just Pearl) has recently become the new master of the Thieves Guild.
> 
> Like other OCs I've introduced for various role/world-filling purposes (e.g., Hafiz and Maria back at Karthspire), we are probably not going to hear from Pearl often, though I like the idea of her very much. Let's say she has a wife and a couple of hatchlings at Honeyside who may or may not have helped to mislead the Legion's trackers by disposing of Miel's uniform in the lake.
> 
> I also like to imagine that Riften has a much more thriving community of Argonians than at Windhelm, given how one is a jeweler and two run the best inn in town.


	27. Chapter 27

Farkas knew better than to ask another fighter about her scars. But, he could certainly study them while she slept. He could even revisit old pages in his journal to establish a sort of history, matching what stories she'd told him in letters, over drinks, or in bed to what he'd put down in ink or charcoal. Bee didn't scar easily, but she did scar, and he wondered if there was any rhyme or reason to which injuries were allowed to leave their marks.

The odd cut under her eye he'd noticed on their very first night: a snapped lute string when she was 15, struggling to distinguish herself artistically at Dibella's temple. The ridge on her left knee: a carriage accident at 19, during a joyride with her first love. The line above her left elbow: a mishap during a town festival where she'd been stationed at 23. The burn marks on her right leg: sustained at Helgen Keep, just a few weeks before her 28th birthday.

It troubled him, how the scars multiplied after that. She had souvenirs from Whiterun, Dawnstar, Riften, and Blackreach, with a long swipe in her side from Ulfric Stormcloak himself. She had her hands, where the uniformity and precision of the cuts unsettled him more than any other sort of blade wound. Worst of all, on the back of her left thigh and across her shoulder, there were claw marks that only beasts could have made, and Farkas knew exactly what sort of beasts had made them.

All of these marks would fade in time, the more healing she received — the lute string scar was barely visible now — but the idea of how much healing Bee had done, and the idea of her needing more, bothered him, too. The anniversary of her arrival in Skyrim was months away yet, and she still had Alduin to deal with. With the Dragonborn alive after all, Jarl Elisif might pressure the Empire to punish Ulfric _properly_ for her husband's death. That meant the civil war could begin all over again, too.

"You've been through so much in so little time," he whispered aloud, gently running a knuckle along Miel's upper arm. "What kind of trouble will you get into next?"

She slept on, not hearing a thing, too tired from her homecoming. But Vilkas sighed audibly in the shadows on his side of the bed.

"Loud hour?" Farkas asked.

Vilkas grunted in reply. He didn't have a book or a journal with him, they were out of drink, and Bee had half-threatened to stab them with a silver fork if they woke her again. That left him with only his thoughts. Farkas used to joke that they got loud enough at this hour to wake _him_ up. When they were younger, slept in the same room, and slept more easily, he would often jolt awake to find his twin stewing in the dark, or trying to put himself back to sleep with a book by a shrinking candle.

"How did you do it, Farkas?" his brother asked softly. 

"Do what?"

"Move on."

"I didn't. I wanted to keep looking for her."

"I mean in 176, 177 thereabouts. When everyone else came home. From the war."

Farkas stilled his drawing hand.

"You waited," Vilkas continued. "You waited and you waited, and then one day, you just stopped waiting. How did you decide when you were done?"

Farkas rolled the charcoal between his fingers and bit the inside of his cheek.

"I didn't," he said again, feeling a little silly. "I just — woke up one morning, and I thought, 'Da's not going to mind if I play with the others, while I'm waiting. Or if I go to the river for a bit to look at the fish. Or if I practice with my sword. While I'm waiting.'"

Vilkas pulled a face. Farkas knew his brother was making a hundred tiny judgments about this confession, but he went on. "I just always thought there was a reason he was late, and he would tell us all about it when he got back."

His brother snorted. "I remember your reasons. 'Maybe he was asked to help fix things in Cyrodiil.' 'Maybe the Alik'r were so impressed with him, they asked him to join.' 'Maybe a princess in High Rock forced him to be married for 50 years.'"

Farkas smiled faintly at his boyhood self. "You know, it hasn't been 50 years yet. We could have a royal baby brother by now."

"Be serious!"

"Shh."

Miel made a soft whine, but she didn't wake.

"I am a little serious," Farkas said, after a while. "I liked imagining him doing all sorts of things. Having an interesting life."

Vilkas rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Did it never make you angry, then," he asked, "that he didn't seem to think life — with us — at Jorrvaskr — was interesting enough?"

Farkas shrugged. He used his fingers to measure the wolf scratch on Bee's shoulder. "Of course it did," he said carefully. Maybe she'd like some ideas for covering it up. "Still. It counted as a reason. You know me. Give me enough time, I can forgive almost anything, as long as there's a good reason. I think I made up ten thousand good ones to make up for the one or two bad ones."

"Farkas, that's lying to yourself."

"Maybe." He resumed doodling. "But also, I just — got tired of being mad. I had games to play. Lessons to fake learning. Chores to get out of. Training. Things to draw. Girls to bother. You know."

Vilkas shook his head again and ran a hand over his face. "Why is everything always so easy for you?"

Farkas raised his brow with a smirk. "Do you know how many times I used to ask myself that when you got to leave lessons early to go play? Or when you could show off the Cirroc sword forms after watching just a few times?"

"I'd give half my brains and skill if it meant being a happier man."

Farkas hissed.

"You know what I mean!"

He did, and he nodded good-naturedly. Vilkas was exaggerating. Working his brain was one of the few things that did make his brother happy. He just did it a little too much sometimes. Like at the loud hour.

Farkas resisted the urge to hum to himself as he drew. Bee stirred slightly, hooking her ankle beneath his brother's leg.

"I know I should believe in her," Vilkas said, voice low. "You were right. I believed in her even less than I did Jergen. I just — I do not know if I have it in me to believe like that anymore, Farkas. It was just — easier — to accept that she was gone."

Farkas said nothing at first.

"This is going to happen again," Vilkas continued. "Just hearing her talk about climbing the Throat again makes me nauseous. She's going off somewhere we can't reach her, somewhere we can't follow. Again. How many more times will I have to do this? How many more times must I wonder if this time, we'll actually lose her? How do I wait, and wait, and believe?"

Farkas pushed a deep breath out through his nose.

"It isn't as easy as it might look to you," he replied. "I had my doubts, when I was out looking for her. 'This isn't going to end well, Farkas.' 'You need to go home, Farkas.' 'You're being stupid, Farkas.'" He sensed his brother bristle. "I just — tried to believe louder, if that makes any sense."

Vilkas's mention of the Throat pricked at him. His brother was right, too. They could not go up there with her. That was Kyne's mountain. Farkas couldn't hunt in the foothills without feeling sick. The temple in Whiterun made his head want to explode. Seeing her off in Ivarstead the last time gave him strange fever chills. What would happen if he actually set foot on the 7,000 Steps?

Then, there was Alduin, and what would happen afterwards. Bee would defeat the monster, of course, but if she didn't — on the very small, tiny, practically negligible chance that she didn't — she would go to Sovngarde. There was no question; that was her place. And, again, they would not be able to follow. Pilgrims under the Gildergreen talked about meeting again in Aetherius after the end of the world, but Farkas knew — he knew now, after what happened in the woods — that he would never even see it. His place was the Hunting Grounds.

He had to hope, had to believe she would win. To even think of accepting the alternative was unbearable. Vilkas would have to tell him how to do _that_.

"Has Kodlak made any progress on finding the cure?" he suddenly asked.

Across the bed, he caught a look of understanding.

"Not very much," Vilkas said. "He's found some writings on a group of covens called the Glenmoril Wyrd, but the cures they mention involve hurting innocents. Transactional sort of magic, where you give your curse to someone else to bear. There's no way the old man would do that."

"No," Farkas agreed. Cautiously, he looked at his brother again. "You've been thinking about it? Taking the cure if Kodlak finds it?"

Vilkas played with a bit of Miel's hair; he wound it around his fingertips and then let it fall back onto the pillow. "I've had to," he replied. "Being grounded in Whiterun has meant helping him read more. And all this new strength, the cravings, the excess energy — I enjoy the gifts when I use them, but everything else is — a bit of a nuisance."

This time, his brother was understating. Farkas thought of the past few weeks in the north: tearing through his prey at night, shredding the group of Silver Hand near the ruins, and, at one point, joining a pack of ice brothers against saber cats in a skirmish for territory. Every night promised a new adventure.

But then, he changed back, and he was always too awake. Thirsty. Still hungry. Alone. He thought sheepishly of the bills he had to settle at the Nightgate, the Windpeak, and the Frozen Hearth. He thought of the early hours he spent bow hunting, hacking at trees, or throwing himself into the freezing ocean when there was nothing else to do. He thought of the times he sat at the hatch of the mage's iceberg, or the cold bronzed doors of that Dwemer ruin, just to breathe in the last traces of her scent. Secretly, Farkas was glad he had lost his armor and gone home; otherwise, he might have lost his mind.

Even now that they were together, now that his long-sought quarry was in reach, now that he could actually hold her in his arms, he was discontented, restless. Bee was tired, thin, felt more fragile. Farkas had nearly gone mad with her requests to be slow, to be gentle, and finally, to let her sleep.

He missed his old sense of control. He missed being trusted by Kodlak to keep himself in check. He missed being a working Companion, taking jobs, and being helpful. He missed being able to spend a night at home doing nothing, sitting in the mead hall with his shield-siblings and a lute, or just taking a nap, without wanting to tear his own skin off and terrorize the first weakling he smelled in the wind. He missed being able to hold someone without worrying that he would hurt her.

Farkas realized where his thoughts were going, and his heart sank. He liked to live without regret if he could help it, yet these days, it seemed the feeling came to him more and more.

The beast in his blood stirred in anger, and he thought of the woods. There was still another way, he remembered. Why agonize over being left behind, when she could go with them? Clearly, what they were had not scared her off. Hircine had said it himself; she was welcome to his family and his realm. What if she chose to join them, if the choice presented itself again?

Farkas shook his head. They needed time. It was selfish, maybe, to think like this, but he desperately wanted Bee to win, so they'd have time — to help Kodlak, to think about what was right, to have a new choice in his fate, or to see if she would join him in his. He needed time to deal with his regrets later, because facing them now, knowing he could do nothing about them if Alduin won, felt unfair.

He leaned back to look at the page and saw that the knots and twists of his design took the shape of a wolf, because of course he had drawn another wolf. He sighed, closed his journal, and set it aside. He stood to wash his hands briefly in the basin and glanced out the window. The sun would be rising soon.

Upon returning to bed, he crept close to Bee and gingerly took up her hand. He pressed his lips to her fingers, to her knuckles, to the unnatural lines that covered the skin. He winced at the sight of a fresh bruise on her wrist and kissed that, too. That wasn't going to become another souvenir, at least.

He pressed closer, burying his nose in the hair just above her neck, and his heart began to beat a little faster as his nostrils filled with her scent.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vilkas waving a fork at him in mock reproach. "Bad idea."

"Hide it," Farkas hissed, grinning.

Bee whined in protest, and he heard her own heart quicken as wakefulness brought a new warmth to her body. He sensed, too, that there'd be no stabbing on her part if he played this right, if he asked just the right question.

"Hey, Bee."

"Nnn."

"What do you want for breakfast?"

* * *

  
Despite Miel's best efforts, they did not leave the meadery till nearly noon.

They walked back toward the city under a high sun with much stumbling, hands clasping and unclasping, elbows bumping, hair being tugged, arms being pinched, ribs being poked and teased, someone hanging from her shoulders, or someone trying to squeeze the life out of her while pretending to bite her ears, her neck, her cheeks. There was a youthful aggression to the way Farkas and Vilkas jostled to lay hands on her that left Miel simultaneously unsettled, thrilled, and a little annoyed. Only when she threatened to use her Voice did they behave a little better.

"You weren't like this when we walked back from Greenspring," she complained, prying someone's hand off her back before it ventured too low. The workers at the former Pelagia farm were watching with amusement.

"You hadn't just come back from the dead," Vilkas replied. He squeezed above her elbow with a thumb and knuckle.

"Ow!"

Farkas laughed. "Are the Jorrvaskr boys being too rough today, Little Bee?" he teased. "Are they being mean?"

"OW! Yes, and yes!"

Vilkas hooked an arm around her neck and softly kissed her temple. "Sorry," he whispered, in an only-half-sorry tone she hadn't heard since he was 10. "I didn't hear any complaints this morning, when we — Aach! Not there, not there!"

Miel began to giggle despite herself. Then, Farkas interlaced his fingers with hers, and the three of them walked in near silence together, pinching reduced to a minimum.

"Come to think of it, this morning — last night — wasn't like Greenspring, either," Miel said, thoughtful. "Or at the Winking Skeever. You're, um — "

She felt the heat rising to her face as she recalled the stronger grip, the harder bite, the brighter shine of silver in their eyes. Even when she asked for softness, they felt — Miel struggled for the right word. Greedy. Ravenous. Savage. Wild. As before, yet — more. "Almost — almost inhuman."

She realized what she was saying even before she finished, and she winced, catching the look between brothers as it passed over her head. "Is it from — from what happened in the woods?"

Farkas ducked his head sheepishly. "Maybe." Then, his beard brushed her ear. "Do you like it?"

Miel felt a prickle in her spine and failed to suppress a grin. When she had fully rested, when she had more meat on her bones again, the heights they would reach —

She motioned for an abrupt stop. They were at the first archway beyond the stables now, and a cacophonous roar was coming from behind the city walls.

A familiar fear gripped her, and Miel instinctively bound a sword. "A battle?" she whispered.

She readied her other hand to call an atronach and struggled to hear the center of the chaos — How far was it from Breezehome? Was Jorrvaskr sheltering her girls? — when Farkas laid a hand on her shoulder.

"It's a celebration. They're celebrating, Bee."

"Mallus must have tipped off the guards, while _we_ were celebrating," Vilkas added. He gave her arm a soothing touch, and she cautiously released her magic hold. "Whiterun is welcoming you home."

* * *

  
They were swept into a party as soon as they passed through the gates. She had barely glimpsed Lydia nodding from her post outside Breezehome when Miel felt a mug pressed into her hands, only for the ale to be sloshed onto the crowd as a pair of soldiers lifted her off her feet. She cast a helpless smile back at the twins and her alarmed housecarl as she was borne in a makeshift procession toward the market square. The air was thick with flying posies, scraps of colored paper, and magelight. Different bands seemed to be competing at playing the loudest triumphal march. Townsfolk beat their own drums and blew their own pipes and horns.

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, Legate Quentin Cipius, a Stormcloak Commander, Kodlak Whitemane, the clan heads, and the head priests were all standing atop the steps between the square and the Gildergreen. But, Miel had eyes only for the children standing among them.

"Mama!"

"Lucia! Sofie!"

Miel scrambled out of the soldiers' hands as the crowd made way for the girls. Lucia flung herself at her mother's neck, and Sofie was close behind. Miel made a dozen new apologies and reassurances as all three of them wept over her return, and then she stood to shake the town leaders' hands.

"This is a bit premature, don't you think?" she said with a nervous laugh. "I haven't beaten Alduin yet."

"Ha! The people did this of their own accord," Balgruuf said. "I'm not paying for it — though I'll contribute some roast oxen if this lasts till evening."

Danica Pure-Spring serenely patted her on the shoulder. "They're celebrating the return of hope, Dovahkiin. They're thankful for their answered prayers."

Miel knit her brow. "I don't know about that. I never meant to be gone so long; I always meant to come back." Softly, she cupped Sofie's cheek. "I caused so much trouble, disappearing in the first place."

"You'll have to explain that, by the way." Legate Quentin was stern.

Danica scoffed, "Surely your meetings can wait another day. Can't you see this woman needs food and rest? Bee, I doubt you've slept a wink."

The twins had pushed through the crowd by then, and Miel felt a poke at her ribs. "Why is that?" Vilkas whispered.

Concern crept over the Nord leader's faces.

"I'm with the priestess here," Vignar Gray-Mane said. "She must be in top condition if we're to stand a chance. Your Imperial chitchat can wait."

"I didn't mean we had to meet this minute," Quentin grumbled. "How are you feeling, Quaestor?"

Miel thought she was fine, though a little sick from all the rich food of the meadery kitchens. But, the worry in the girls' eyes and the noise of the revelry was getting to her. After tomb-like Blackreach, everything in Whiterun was bright and loud. Hiding in the temple for a while suddenly seemed wonderful. Some respite from the twins' groping, too, would be nice.

"I'd appreciate it if you looked me over," she said to Danica. "Can the girls come?"

The men on the steps made room for them to pass. Miel offered the crowd a bemused but appreciative wave, then stuck her tongue out at Farkas before retreating beyond the Gildergreen.

The temple, too, was crowded. The worshippers there were more composed than the people outside, though still full of joy. Miel grew uncomfortable at the staring, the smiling, and the tears. All of these people had come here because of her — because she had hidden herself away for too long.

It had been one thing merely to think of the whole world depending on her. It was another thing to actually see throngs of people gathered for her sake, to hear them celebrating in her name outside, and to look these pilgrims in the eyes and see all their relief, expectation, and fear. The weight of their hopes for continued existence was going to crush her.

Danica gave her a reassuring pat on the back, and Miel sighed with exhaustion as the doors of the private room closed behind them. She fell into the first chair she saw and vomited into the nearest urn.

The children exclaimed.

"Oh no! Are you sick?" Sofie cried. "I have a potion from work, let me — "

Miel accepted the little bottle, and Danica clucked gently.

"Should have had something easier on your stomach for breakfast. Porridge, perhaps, or soup."

"No, not soup," Miel groaned. She retched again. "Never again soup."

"But not mead, either," the priestess chided with a sniff. "And, yes, soup. Bone broth, to start." She directed Sofie to her store of ingredients with instructions for a mixture to settle Miel's gut. "The curative potion can wait till after I've examined her; a simpler remedy is enough for now. Lucia, why don't you help your sister? This is something you can make at home."

Danica then nodded at a long padded seat. "Why don't you lie down, and I'll examine you? Where has your armor gone?"

Miel was in the now-rumpled clothes she had put on after her bath. She had left her uniform armor with the Thieves Guild, and the thieves' armor with Mallus.

"I don't know. I think I'll need some new pieces." The idea of Imperial red made her stomach turn a bit, though that might have been the last of her breakfast trying to leave her.

She obeyed the priestess and let the woman pass her hands, glowing with the yellow light of Restoration, over her body, beginning at her head. When Danica hovered below her navel, Miel caught an arched brow and a knowing smirk, and she grinned back.

"Sofie," the priestess said lightly, "do you know how to brew a dose of imp's milk? Best begin with that."

"Ugh! Mama!"

Miel laughed. "We've been over this. It's a normal thing adults like to do."

Lucia then wrinkled her nose. "Don't take imp's milk, Mama," she said. "I want a baby brother or sister."

Miel coughed and felt her cheeks grow hot. "Wherever in the world did you hear about imp's milk? I don't think I've gone over that with you yet."

"Jorrvaskr," Lucia said with a shrug. "Aela was telling Skjor she needed more from the Cauldron, so I asked Sofie what it was."

Miel and Danica exchanged looks. Aela and Skjor?

"What else are you learning at Jorrvaskr, sweet one?" Vilkas had given his own account at the meadery, but he clearly missed a few things.

Lucia brightened and began talking about training schedules, archery, cooking with Tilma, and helping Kodlak. Miel was touched and more than humbled that the Companions had made room for the girl. But then, if Jorrvaskr had produced the twins, it wasn't the worst place for Lucia to wait.

"The Harbinger just makes me write down names and dates. But, I saw he has lots of books on witches and werewolves, Mama! It's exciting; I wonder if he'll let me read them."

Miel struggled to keep her expression still. Was that another talk they needed to have? Between Aela's potion supply and Kodlak's library, these Companions were not as discreet as they thought.

Danica finished her examination. "There are a few minor injuries that have healed well enough by themselves. I am not concerned about them. But, your humors are out of balance from malnourishment. Hold the stomachache potion, girls. I need to brew something more specific."

She went to the ingredient cabinet and began taking down jars and bottles, sniffing their contents, and measuring them into a mortar. "I sense you will want to rush off again," the priestess continued, "but I urge you to let me treat you for another day or two."

Miel's eyes fell upon the Elder Scroll. It stuck out of her pack where she'd dropped it before losing her breakfast.

"I don't know if we have a day or two," she said quietly.

Danica made an exasperated noise. "Please. If Alduin wanted to eat the world in a day, we would not be speaking. You'll be in no state to fight him, anyway, if your heart stops because you didn't let me help you."

Sofie and Lucia's eyes widened, and Miel grimaced.

"You can spare the time," the priestess pressed. "For others, it takes weeks, months to restore their humors. You and I both know what your body is capable of."

She was talking about what she'd witnessed at Castle Dour, Miel knew. Danica sighed as her patient avoided her gaze.

Dainty hands in alchemist's gloves then came into view. Sofie bore a tray with a small bowl of a milky yellow potion. "Your imp's milk," she said indignantly. "Never ask me to make this for you again, Mama. Buy it from the store like everyone else."

"Why do you think I wanted an alchemist in the family?" Miel teased.

Sofie threw her hands up with a disgusted sound and returned to give Danica assistance. Lucia hovered close by.

"I wish I could be an apprentice," she grumbled.

The priestess smiled. "I've told you, dear; temples don't take anyone younger than 12. And, if it's the Whiterun temple you want to join, you'll have a lot of competition. We don't take in very many apprentices, and we don't do it too often. You'd have to work very hard." 

"I can do it! I'm going to be a healer," Lucia declared. "Like Danica. Like Grandmama. I'm going to be a healer, and a priestess, and a huntress."

"That's a lot of things. Are you going to take care of me?" Miel asked ruefully.

"She's a hard-headed patient, Lucia," Danica said, smiling. "You'd have your hands full."

"It's not worth your trouble. Surely you could be anything else," Miel added.

Lucia shook her head.

"I can be anything I want! That's what you said."

Danica caught Miel's eye and smirked.

"I'm going to study at a temple, like you did," the girl continued. "I'll study at this temple, because we're not going to High Rock anymore. And I'll go to Jorrvaskr, too, so Aela can keep teaching me."

Sofie laughed. "You'll be a Companion? You'd have to pass a test from Uncle Vilkas first."

Lucia stuck out her chin. "That's why I'm paying attention to everything they do! And anyway, he'll be an old man then, so I'll be fine."

Everyone else burst into laughter. Miel had to assure the protesting child that they were laughing at "old" Uncle Vilkas, not at her. She then made a note to herself, to warn him about a young aspirant "paying attention to everything they do".

Sofie stood before the cupboard of ingredients with an appraising look. "You're low on dartwing and elves ear," she said to Danica. "Hawk feathers, too. Shall I put in an order for you with Mistress Arcadia?"

Lucia sat in a corner with her arms crossed, still somewhat offended.

They were so far now from the timid, shivering waifs Miel had encountered in the fall. Their eyes betrayed the the grief and anxiety they had endured during her disappearance, but they were resilient, strong. She was glad for them. She was worried. She was a little sad.

Again, her gaze went to the Elder Scroll. She needed to make better preparations for them. Even if she won, if she disappeared again, or if something were to happen to her — Guillaume would love them as she did, but to be uprooted from the lives they had made —

She opened her arms and asked the younger girl for a hug. "I will do whatever I can for a chance to give you the life you want," she said softly. "And I hope I'll be there to watch you knock your uncle flat."

"Oh, I want to see that too!" Sofie said.

Danica chuckled. She then brought over the second potion herself.

"Speaking of laying them flat," she said with a sly look, "tell those men that you need to avoid vigorous activity. At least while I'm treating you."

"Danica!"

"Ugh!" Sofie cried.

"Why, Mama?"

Miel choked, then scowled at the priestess, who laughed.

"Because I need to rest, Lucia," she replied simply.

She managed to say it without feeling too guilty, either. She didn't really need Danica's permission — or anyone's — but it was nice to claim. "I need to go home and stay with you a while."

* * *

  
From the yard, Vilkas glimpsed Miel and Lydia entering Dragonsreach the following morning.

"Hmph. Couldn't stay away — ow!"

Ria grinned; she'd taken advantage of his distraction and belted him in the jaw. Vilkas grumbled and returned to their sparring. On the edge of the yard, Lucia and Farkas were stuffing a new training dummy and laughed out loud.

The disorder in the streets had calmed somewhat, having found release in the sudden celebration. Vilkas and Farkas had taken part in the racket after their hunt, then drunkenly pelted Miel's window with pebbles before a disgruntled Lydia shooed them away. Sober now, Vilkas felt a new sort of restlessness as he realized that Miel had been right. The party was premature.

For all intents and purposes, the civil war had come to an abrupt end, and Idolaf claimed in his wine-filled rambling that this would likely last, even after Alduin was beaten. That meant Miel could stay home. Here, in Whiterun. With them. Vilkas had gotten something he wanted, or thought he wanted, and it only brought him more uncertainty.

He thought now of the way she complained of his and Farkas's pestering, how eager she had seemed to leave them outside the temple, and the fact that he had not heard from her since then. He knew it meant nothing; she was tired, she needed to recover, and she owed her children time, too. Lucia had even said they were invited to dinner this evening. He felt jealous, impatient, and wary nonetheless.

"Agh!"

"Guard up, Uncle Vilkas!"

That was his problem.

"I think we're done, Ria," he said brusquely. "Lucia, you and Farkas now. Footwork, come on."

Vilkas barely paid attention as they took up their stances. He was trying, trying to believe as his brother did that she would win, yet he was afraid of what came afterward if she did: normal life, here in Whiterun. As normal as a dragon-souled hero and two werewolf mercenaries could manage, but still.

Months of letters filled with longing, punctuated with rare days and nights together — how would that compare with the everyday? Now that every secret had been discovered, every fault accepted with a tender kiss, she would get tired of them. Farkas would smother her. Vilkas would find quarrels where there were none. She would let her discontent fester for the sake of peace, until she simply came to her senses and left, like everyone else. Or, until destiny took her away for good.

"Uncle Vilkas!" Lucia called. "Uncle Farkas isn't taking this seriously!"

Farkas laughed.

"Respect your opponent's time, Farkas," Vilkas replied wearily.

"All right, I'm sorry, little fox. Here, Zohara's fourth maneuver. Again."

Vilkas willed himself to watch them, then sat with them in silence when their time ended and they resumed with the training dummy. Skjor took over the yard with Njada and Athis for some shield work. Kodlak was up by the Skyforge, talking over pieces of Wuuthrad with Eorlund Gray-Mane. Aela sat in the shade with Torvar and Ria, laughing about their drunken misdeeds the night before.

With all of Skyrim holding its breath for the Dragonborn, contracts had trickled to nearly nothing, but the Companions went on with their days. Vilkas couldn't remember the last time they were all together like this. With everything else on his mind, everything else hanging over it all, it was bittersweet. If Miel failed, these would be the last Companions Jorrvaskr would ever see.

No, it was premature to think of normal life. Why did he even bother? She had an Elder Scroll to read, an old god to fight to the death, a prophecy to fulfill — and Esbern never did say how the fight would end, only that it was inevitable.

* * *

  
Miel thanked Proventus Avenicci for the documents and grinned at Lydia as they turned away.

"My thane," the housecarl was saying, "let me say again how honored I am that you have named me to this post."

"It's not a post, Lydia," Miel replied. "If anything, it formalizes the role you've played in their lives from the start. I'd say you're more entitled to this than I have been."

Lydia swallowed and stared at the document. Her eyes were wet. Miel stopped to embrace her steward and thank her again, for everything she'd done and would continue to do.

"Now, come on. I'm supposed to be resting at home. Let's leave this place before the Legate — "

"Quaestor! A word, if you please!"

" — sees me."

Miel grimaced and turned toward the balcony. Legate Quentin was standing there, along with the Stormcloak Commander she had seen the day before.

"What's his name again?" she muttered to Lydia.

"Hjornskar Head-Smasher."

He had reddish-brown hair, a large nose, and an obvious chip on his shoulder.

"You can't be serious."

"His grandfather was a simple man who chose a simple name," Lydia replied quickly. "Thankfully for their clan, Hjornskar has more brains, or he wouldn't be a Commander at our age."

The Stormcloak officer was just one of several sent to Whiterun to help uphold the truce. Some of the recent street scuffles stemmed from lingering animosity on both sides of the aborted war. His scowl deepened now as Miel returned his stare, and he purposely bumped into the Legate as he stalked back toward the meeting table. Quentin merely sighed and signalled for her to follow.

"I'm on my way," she called.

"Do you need my support, my thane?"

Miel sighed. "I'm afraid this is soldiers' business, Lydia. You can go ahead to Breezehome."

The housecarl shook her head. "Don't want the rabble around the Gildergreen getting too close to you. I'll wait here until you're finished. I'll see if my young cousins' manners have improved."

"Frothar's not too bad, I think."

With that, they clasped arms, and Miel headed up the stairs past the throne.

Quentin and Hjornskar stood on one side of the table, and Miel took her place opposite. Red and blue flags no longer dotted the map of Skyrim between them. It unsettled her somewhat, to see the province as a single territory once more. Instead, there were black flags making a shaky trail across various holds. The dragon burial mounds.

"If I had known my disappearance would lead to peace, I would have gone a long time ago," she said, then immediately regretted it. Neither officer was amused.

"We'll see how long it lasts, now that the Empire no longer needs my King to finish your job," Hjornskar spat.

Quentin cast his eyes toward the ceiling as though begging the Divines for mercy. His sideburns looked as though some of the hairs had been ripped out recently. "Ulfric remains a contingency should the Dragonborn fail," he said wearily, "and we have a larger conflict on the horizon, something this alliance will help us face. But, we are getting ahead of ourselves. Quaestor? All of us await your report on your absence."

With a sigh of her own, Miel complied, recounting how she had left Riften, where she had been since then, and what she had done. Out of common sense, she excluded the Thieves Guild's involvement, but she was honest about everything else. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she undid her straps and laid the Elder Scroll on the table.

Hjornskar scoffed. "You expect us to believe that after deserting your place for this scroll and keeping its existence a secret, you simply walked down the street with it on your back?"

Miel raised her brows. "Where was I supposed to leave it? In the loft of my little cottage?"

Quentin eyed the scroll with unease. "No, it is better that you kept it on your person," he said. "Continue to do so at all times. The Thalmor would love to get their hands on this, and I shudder to think — "

Hjornskar looked at him with surprise, then regained his glower. "Where do you intend to take it, then?"

"The Throat of the World. I'm to read it there and uncover the lost Shout."

"You'll go blind!" Quentin cried. "Perhaps we ought to send south for a Moth Priest."

Miel bit the inside of her cheek. "That did occur to me. But, how long would we have to wait for one to reach Skyrim? As it is, I find trouble obeying my healer's orders for more than another day." She glanced down at the scroll with a growing sense of dread. "Alduin won't be waiting much longer. I can feel it."

The Legate sighed. "So be it, then. I'll send a small contingent to accompany you up to High Hrothgar — "

"So will I," Hjornskar put in.

" — and ensure your safe return here to Whiterun."

Miel nodded, swallowing her frustration. Now, there were two armies wanting to mind her every move.

"And then, what, sir? Sirs?" she asked.

Hjornskar gestured at the map with its black flags. "Farengar and some of our intelligence people have been tracking the resurrections," he said. "Sightings of the big black one, as well. That's him, isn't it?"

Miel nodded.

Hjornskar took a breath. "His next appearance will likely be in the Reach. Once you've returned from the Throat, you, Jarl Ulfric, and your selected units will head there to lie in wait."

"Ulfric, too?"

The Commander narrowed his eyes at her. "He seeks to recover honor after Riften. Working with you to bring Alduin down will show the Empire, he does understand what's important, unlike your General in Castle Dour."

Quentin's nostrils flared. "Look here, you. Even if she had come down from the peak knowing the lost Shout already, we would have needed time to locate the next resurrection. General Tullius was not inclined to let his strongest asset twiddle her thumbs while the Rift needed stabilizing."

"Conquering," Hjornskar retorted.

The Legate threw up his hands.

Miel shifted uncomfortably. "How is the General? I imagine he's upset with me."

Quentin looked away. "Imagine a lot of the Legion is upset with you. It was only yesterday we learned you were alive, so Castle Dour has not answered my dispatch just yet. But, some in the barracks here already consider you a liar and a deserter."

Miel bit her cheek. Even if she had done it for the scroll, this wasn't something she could deny, and she'd had the penalties drilled into her from her first day of training. That explained the angry stares she had gotten from comrades in the street, now that the celebration had died down.

"So, what's to be done with me?"

Quentin sighed. "For now, nothing. We still need you. We can hardly throw you into a cell just yet, and I can still recall the last time we tried to take your head."

"Go home and rest, traitor," Hjornskar said with spite, "like you were supposed to."

Miel took her leave with a sigh. As she headed down toward the main hall again, she was glad she had come for the documents. If Alduin didn't kill her, there were others lining up for the task.

When she saw Lydia horsing around with Balgruuf's sons, however, her mood began to rise. Her standing in the Legion was just one more thing that could wait until later. At the moment, Miel had something much more worthy of her time.

* * *

  
Her figure appeared again on the steps as she left Dragonsreach, and Vilkas's heart quickened. Miel was walking slowly, some papers in her hand, and Lydia was giving her a reassuring pat on the back. Had something happened? Vilkas got to his feet before he could think.

He went around the mead hall to watch them come down. Miel saw him and waved. Lydia stayed close, keeping the mass of people around the Gildergreen from crowding her thane, though Miel nodded at some of them with a fixed smile. Vilkas watched anxiously, ready if anyone moved against her or the scroll on her back, but the pilgrims were mostly respectful. When she and Lydia reached the steps to Jorrvaskr, the two women parted with another hug.

"Is everything all right, love?" he said.

Miel took his hand and briefly kissed him on the lips. "Is there somewhere we can talk? With Farkas, too. I'll tell Lucia and Sofie later."

Something that warranted telling even the children? Vilkas felt his worry deepen at first. Her heart was in a tumult, excited at what she had to share, yet apprehensive, too. She was breathing deeply to calm herself, but she was hopeful. This was a good thing, whatever it was. Vilkas reminded himself to believe.

"No one's in the mead hall but Vignar and Brill, and they won't bother us," he replied. "Come inside. I'll fetch Farkas."

When he and his brother reentered, Miel was sitting on one of the benches to the side. She was looking up at the shields that hung from the beams in memory of Companions past. The Elder Scroll was in her lap, and the papers she brought with her risked crumpling as she rolled them tightly around it in suspense. Vilkas and Farkas sat on either side of her and waited for her to speak.

Slowly, she unfurled the papers and tried to flatten them against her knees. "Yesterday, when Danica and the girls were tending to me," she began, "I couldn't help thinking about how they would have been taken away from here. Sent away to a strange land to live out however many days they'd have left, instead of being in the home they know, with the people they love. I haven't been able to stop thinking of it since then, and I wanted to talk — to ask you — if you would be willing to do something about it."

Vilkas accepted one of the wrinkled sheets. He furrowed his brow, and then his hand began to shake as he recognized the Whiterun seal, the braided border. Another piece of official stationery from 30 years ago. This time, however, instead of the name "Kodlak Whitemane", he saw his own.

Farkas leapt to his feet with a shout.

"If something happens, even if Alduin falls, yet I somehow — can't come back — or if the Legion decides it's unhappy with me — I want the girls to stay here in Whiterun. It's their home. I'll explain everything to Papa in a letter, and he'll understand. Lydia has agreed too; she's their mother as much as I am, possibly more, really. But, I was hoping — "

"Bee — "

"It just — it makes sense," she said, her words tumbling out of her. "They already see you this way, though they might go on calling you Uncle. I trust you, and they trust you, so — "

Farkas was grinning like it was their birthday all over again. He grabbed Miel and squeezed, and Vilkas had to snatch the Elder Scroll before it fell to the floor. It felt oddly warm, almost alive.

"Love. No need to explain to me," Farkas said. "Ysmir's beard! Let me go find a quill." He stomped over to Brill's room at the edge of the hall.

"Vilkas?"

Gingerly, she took the scroll from him and set it down on the bench. He shivered. Then, he swallowed. He found himself pressing at his eyes with the ball of his hand.

"I came here to talk about it," Miel said, worry creeping into her voice. "I didn't expect you to say yes right away. We can still talk about it," she said. "Or just — hold on to the papers and think about it."

"I've already thought about it," Vilkas whispered. It was her turn to blink in surprise. "When you and Farkas were gone, Idolaf asked, and I accepted. We were only waiting for word from Camlorn."

"Vilkas!"

It was another thing, of course, to actually hold the possibility in his hands.

"What if — " he stammered, "you know what we are — and you and I are not — you and Farkas — we might never — "

Miel pressed a hand to his cheek. "We can talk about it. Gods, there is so much to talk about, like how Lucia sees more than you know around this hall — " Vilkas blanched " — but we can talk about it. This," Miel said, pointing to the document, "we can talk about this with the girls, if you like, though I already know what they'll say. They already know their family's a bit strange. But, whatever happens, you'll be a part of it, by the law of the land. That's the only thing I'm asking you this moment, Vilkas. The rest, like everything else in this godsforsaken life, can wait till later."

Farkas came back and thrust a quill under his nose. "Believe in the future, brother," he said with a smile.

Vilkas looked into her eyes, at once pleading and hopeful.

He took the quill, and he signed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this chapter feels long and slow. I also think it's a bit fluffier than I usually write because of the family stuff. But, I thought it was important to show where people's heads are at before heading into the showdown with Alduin, as well as the professional fallout for Miel just disappearing from Riften. I just struggled with editing. Feedback is appreciated, as usual.
> 
> The cures Vilkas mentions are [described in the UESP wiki](https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Lycanthropy#Curing_the_Condition) and appear in games whose timelines happen before the events of Skyrim.
> 
> No actual imps are harmed in the making of imp's milk. Consider it a folk name I've invented for morning-after potion.
> 
> If Miel can heal fast, why would she be malnourished after Blackreach? My headcanon has it that healing/Restoration doesn't simply put lost nutrients back into your body. Danica saying Miel's "humors" are out of balance is just a more lore-friendly way of saying her plasma electrolytes are low.
> 
> As for the plan to wait for Alduin in the Reach, the first fight with him doesn't happen there, of course, but none of the characters know that. Regarding that as well as the Ulfric contingency, I tried to imagine the approach Skyrim's authorities might take to the Alduin problem without knowing what we know as players.


	28. Chapter 28

Farkas was the happiest man in Skyrim. No, the happiest on Nirn.

He was sitting on the dining bench at Breezehome, leaning against the table, and picking at the lute. Bee and Lydia were chatting as they cleared away the remains of their first proper family dinner, most of which he had cooked. The door to the girls' room was open, and he could hear Vilkas reading from a book about the wildlife in Hammerfell. Coppertail had lain his head in Farkas's lap, and Tirdas, hoping for scraps, was trotting around after Lydia.

Everything he ever wanted had been only a hasty signature away.

Bee lowered herself onto the bench and planted a fond kiss on his cheek. "Thanks for dinner," she whispered.

"Anytime, love. We'll have more dinners like this one; you can be sure of that."

She hummed contentedly, and then a twinkle of mischief appeared in her eyes.

"I wonder if you would mind doing me another favor," she purred. "I need help with something upstairs."

Farkas grinned. "Of course." He carefully set the lute down. Coppertail cast him a resentful look before padding into the girls' room for someone else to cuddle.

He followed Bee up the stairs in anticipation. If she was already feeling better, who was he to scold her about following Danica's orders? She was the mighty Dragonborn, after all.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked, unable to take his eyes off her backside as they climbed.

"Oh, you'll see."

They got to her bedroom door, and Farkas quickly wrapped his arms around her waist. His mouth found her neck, and he began to nip at her. She giggled, already thrilling to his touch.

"Now, wait a moment, love," she said. "This isn't — "

He pushed them through the doors, then tripped.

"What in the — "

The bed was littered with pieces of armor, and more lay scattered across the floor. Straw poked out of open storage crates. Bee peeled herself away from him and stepped toward one of them to rummage around.

"My armor doesn't fit me anymore," she said. "I'm not sure I should be wearing my Legion kit, anyway, while Tullius and the rest are angry with me. I was hoping you would help me put a workable substitute together for Adrianne to adjust."

"Oh, you're an awful tease," Farkas growled.

Bee batted her eyes with an innocent smile. "I don't know what you mean."

But, he couldn't help picking up an old, green-tinged gauntlet by his foot and turning it over in his hands. Picking up pieces as he went, Farkas gingerly wove his way to the foot of the bed and sat.

"Late 3rd-Era orcish gauntlet, early 1st-century Nordic carved boots — Shor's bones, is this mithril? This hasn't been forged in Skyrim since the Oblivion Crisis!"

"Is any of it good?" Miel asked with a shrug.

"Bee, you've been keeping a museum up here!" Farkas ran a hand through his hair as the value of her finds began to sink in. "You could sell some of this stuff for a fortune! You wouldn't have to work for ages!'

She smiled, looked with mild interest over a steel cuirass worth half a year's pay for a soldier, and tossed it back into a crate. Farkas winced at the thud.

"That's good to know. I might be out of my post soon," Bee said. She pulled on a leather and glass brigandine and knocked on her ribcage. "I keep coming back to this one; I think it will do, though some of the leather is worn away. This sort of repair, would it take Adrianne long?"

"Hm. Better run over to her first thing tomorrow if you want it by the day after." He picked up a mass of woven metal and held it up to show a mail shirt, but she shook her head. "Out of your post, you say?"

Bee sighed. "The Legion can't punish me for desertion, but they can't keep a deserter around, either. I'm an embarrassment."

"You're just getting too important for the Legion to keep," Farkas teased. That got a smile out of her. But, the longer they looked at one another, the more they seemed to remember her true importance, and the less cheery Farkas felt.

She could very well be choosing the armor in which she faced Alduin, he realized. He watched as she tried on a pair of leather boots and greaves made of some sort of chitin. She hopped from one foot to the other, then onto her toes. Suddenly, nothing in the room seemed adequate for her protection.

"The fit is like a dream, but I'm not sure about this strange plate," she said. "Do you think Adrianne could take those gauntlets apart and repurpose the metal?"

Farkas looked where she pointed and winced. "Those are a Solitude chief housecarl's gauntlets from a few kings and queens ago." He ran a finger over the engraving of a wolf. "They're antique and enchanted, and probably worth selling to someone in the Blue Palace."

"But, they don't fit me," Bee said simply.

He suppressed a cry of horror and held them behind his back, getting a smile out of her.

"Only teasing," she said.

Vilkas came up and leaned in the doorway to watch. Between them, they managed to put together a complete, if hodgepodge, set of armor for her to wear, without having to destroy anything precious. Bee then began inspecting a crate of swords.

"I say Skyforge steel is what you need," Vilkas then put in, "but I might be biased."

She looked up from the blade of a dwarven shortsword — nice and sturdy, Farkas thought, but too heavy for her style. "I thought that was only for Companions."

Farkas smiled. "You did say you might need a new job soon."

Vilkas let out a rare laugh. "I'll go easy on you, in your first trial."

"Don't let Lucia hear you say that!" Bee cried. "She wouldn't want anyone playing favorites when it's her turn."

Farkas took in the warmth of their laughter and leaned back on his hands in contentment. This was something he was going to remember for the rest of his life — the way the lamp light shone on her skin, already less dull than when she'd first emerged from Blackreach; the way his brother actually looked happy for once, or at least open to the possibility of his own happiness; the sheer joy Farkas felt himself, looking forward to more nights like this, with the family they made. Everything was perfect. Everything was —

A prickle went over his arms and the back of his neck, and a deep yearning opened up in his chest. Farkas didn't need to find a clock to know what hour it was. The beast in his blood was now shaking itself from what passed for rest.

Bee had long shed the armor and was putting away the swords — none of which had any silver, he noticed — with her back to both brothers. Her tunic hung a little loose on her now, and when she raised her arms to stash a box in the roof beams, her collar slid and exposed a bit of her shoulder. The meaty smokiness of their dinner lingered about her, along with her own heady scent.

Out of the corner of his eye, Farkas saw Vilkas straighten up in the doorway. His expression darkened. A brief flash of red appeared in his eyes before he closed them and began to take deep breaths through his nose.

When Miel turned around, she immediately knew something had changed. Farkas cursed under his breath at the surprise and fear in her eyes. That very fear, the slight gasp, the sudden gallop of her heart as she realized what was about to happen — all of that only served to rouse the wolf even more.

"We've, um — " he swallowed " — we've lost track of the time. We need to leave."

Meekly, she nodded.

"When you see Adrianne in the morning," Vilkas said, "ask for silver again."

Breezehome was beginning to feel even smaller than it already was. Farkas stumbled out of Bee's room after his brother and knocked over a chair near the hearth. He could sense her, smell her following a few paces behind them despite knowing better; thank the gods that she stopped halfway down the stairs.

"Is Uncle Farkas going to say good night? Uncle Vilkas did already."

He whirled around in horror to see Lucia standing in the half-open doorway of the girls' room. She blanched upon seeing his face and shrank back. Whatever she saw, Farkas knew she didn't recognize it as him, and he wanted to cry out — to howl — in regret.

"Good night," he managed, hoarsely.

Bee hurried the child back into her room. "He and Uncle Vilkas have urgent business, sweet one. They need to hurry away."

"Mama, what's wrong with his eyes?"

Vilkas was pulling him out the front door, but his hearing caught the answer, which was none at all: "Get back into bed, Lucia. You'll see them at Jorrvaskr in the morning."

The wolf was torn; inside was easy prey, and his favorite prey, but such easy prey was never enough.

He let his brother lead him through the city gates as his body strained against the fabric of his clothes. Once outside, Vilkas let go, and they ran for Bleak Falls Mountain. Farkas prayed to whatever gods would take his prayers that they would get behind the treeline before the wolf burst through. The wind urged him on, bringing him other scents — the urine of a red fox, unsuspecting hares foraging beyond the first hills, a brown bear settling into its den with its mate.

 _This_ was the perfect night, his beast told him. This was what he wanted; this was where he belonged, not in some poky cottage where prey simply waited for him to take them into his jaws.

Farkas snarled as they broke through the trees. He shucked his trousers as though they were covered in insects, yanked his shirt off his back, and sunk his fingernails into the dirt with a roar as one spirit launched itself at the other.

_No. No, no, no, no, no. Wrong._

Close by, he heard snapping and grunting as his brother began to change, but Farkas grit his teeth and forced his own beast back. He didn't have to follow. He could be strong. He could subdue the wolf. He could take back control. He could have everything. Everything he wanted. He just — needed —

A long and dire howl shattered the night. It was Farkas's own. His brother then raised his voice to join him. Spoors of dread, left by fleeing prey, snaked through the woods and beckoned them on.

Farkas shuddered. For a brief moment, the man — the man in his blood — _No_. He would show him. He would show him how true happiness tasted. He set off in pursuit of the hares.

* * *

  
Miel was standing outside Warmaiden's waiting for it to open, when Aela came through the city gates. Tall, sinewy, and untameably beautiful, the Huntress of Jorrvaskr was always impressive, no matter when or where they ran into one another. This morning, the late spring sunlight played with the red of her hair, and the body of a doe was draped over her shoulders.

"I suppose we're sisters now, after a fashion," Aela said. "They've joined your family, which makes us family."

"After a fashion," Miel repeated with a faint smile. "Sisters by virtue of some paper. Went out to catch breakfast?"

"Just a bit of practice before the sunrise. If it's all right with you, I'd like to take Lucia with me sometime. She'll be ready to try moving targets soon."

"If she can wake early enough."

But, Miel's smile faded as she remembered Lucia's look of alarm. "Aela, she's going to find out soon, about the twins. About all of you. She came closer than ever last night. She saw Farkas's eyes — "

The memory of the ruby glow sent a shudder down her back.

Aela cursed and set the doe down on a barrel. "Those icebrains! Those idiots! They got too comfortable, did they? Oh, when I get my hands on them, I swear — "

"It's not just them, Aela. Lucia's sharp. She knows about you and Skjor." The Huntress paled, even beneath the face paint. "She's noticed the sort of books Kodlak's been reading. I'm out here at Warmaiden's at this hour only because I know she won't believe she was only dreaming last night, and I don't know how else to answer the questions she's bound to have. I don't — I thought — " She swallowed. "I thought we'd have time to think of how to tell her. Sofie, too."

Aela ran both hands through her hair and growled in exasperation.

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you brought those papers to Jorrvaskr."

Her heart sank, and Aela licked her lips in thought. It wasn't fair for the Huntress to blame her, but there was truth in those words. If only the end of the world didn't make every decision seem a good one.

"Where are they now? The idiots, I mean," Aela asked.

Miel knit her brows. "I thought they'd have returned to Jorrvaskr. I haven't seen them."

Aela shook her head, eyes wide. "We thought they were with you!"

Cursing again, the Huntress took her prize back upon her shoulders. "Tell Lucia to stay home today. I'll go find them."

"But what do I — "

"Just tell her they were ill. You've got some enchanted gear among your spoils, don't you? Say he was playing with a blade of fury or some such nonsense."

That was not a bad idea.

"Say you want to spend time with her before you head up the mountain again, and I said it was all right."

Aela grasped her arm in a comforting gesture.

"I'm sure they're fine," the Huntress said. "Probably overdid things a bit, celebrating the guardianship. They'll be at your feet, begging your forgiveness by the end of today."

"There's nothing to forgive," Miel replied. "They — they still can't control it, can they?"

She was transported back to the clearing, to the night she had to draw blades against them and bleed them into submission. She still was not ready for that to happen again.

Aela sighed, her expression a mixture of annoyance and pity. "Vilkas has been getting better, I think. Still needs to hunt every night, but he's not as frenzied afterwards. Farkas, though — he spoiled the beast, staying out in the wild for weeks, hunt— ah, tracking you across the holds. We're hoping that Vilkas will be a good influence now that he's home, but we fear it could go the other way, too. Farkas always had better command of his spirits, so for him to be struggling now — "

As Aela's words trailed off, Miel felt, again, that she herself was to blame. If she hadn't been gone so long, perhaps this would never have happened. No, it went farther back; if she hadn't followed the white elk in the woods, this would never have happened. If she had been stronger, if she had followed her first instincts, if she had resisted, they might be in Breezehome this very moment, waking the children and making breakfast, or wrapped up in one another in her cramped little room.

Or, if she had given in, if she had taken the blood when it was offered, perhaps she would be out there, with them. Perhaps this would be something they would manage together. Perhaps it wouldn't be a problem, merely a change.

Miel felt tears forming in her eyes, and Aela cleared her throat.

"I'll be going, then," the Huntress said. "We'll tell you as soon as we find them."

Miel nodded, thanked her, and hurriedly wiped her face before anyone else could see. She composed herself to face Adrianne and Ulfberth, then to face Lucia back at Breezehome.

* * *

  
She spent the morning in the child's company, evading questions about the twins and trying not to seem distracted. They went together to see Danica for another examination; met Sofie, the Valentias, Alfhild, and Lars for lunch; and then stayed in the Battle-Borns' yard for the relative quiet. Lucia and Lars whacked one another with wooden swords under Lydia's guidance. Sofie decided to absent herself from Arcadia's for the afternoon to stay with them and gossip with Mila.

They all did their best to ignore the soldiers apparently milling about the Wind District; Miel knew they were there to guard her and the Elder Scroll. At the moment, it was leaning against the sides of a clay vase that decorated Grandmother Bergritte's garden.

Alfhild, due to give birth any day now, gods willing, pointed out a shuttered house in the Wind District near the southern wall.

"The Apple-Blooms have sold it back to the city," she said, absently stroking her belly. "They've decided to return to Cyrodiil, where the wife's family is from. I hear your own family's grown a bit, so you might want to consider a larger home." Miel eyed the house — not as grand as the Battle-Borns' or the Gray-Manes', but still more than twice Breezehome's size.

"The master bedroom is quite spacious, and a fair distance from the other rooms," Alfhild continued.

Miel snorted her tea and coughed.

"If you still like the rowdiness of the Plains District, you could build a whole new house to your liking on Severio's lot. His man sold it back to the keep as well. He always preferred the farm," Alfhild then said. "Or, if you like the fields yourself, there's a small homestead east of our own land. Lovely view of the river. Much more privacy, too."

"Alfhild!"

The Nord laughed, the long braid of her yellow hair falling back from over her shoulder. Miel recovered her breath from sputtering, but her face was warm with embarrassment. Lucia stopped sparring to look at her with concern.

"I'm all right, Lucia. Watch out now!"

The child ably parried Lars's thrust, then feinted left before tapping his butt from the right. Lars complained as the girls burst into laughter, the poor boy. Lucia was not half bad, Miel thought. Lars, meanwhile, almost had a legionnaire's moves, likely picked up from his father, and Lydia was imparting some of the housecarls' training as well. Both children were inexperienced and a bit clumsy, still, but given time, they would learn much from one another and become better fighters for it. Given time.

A homestead by the river. Privacy, indeed. Alfhild was saying something about sharecropping if she didn't want to work the land, but Miel barely listened. Her concerns were more complicated.

If she sold Breezehome and some of the antiques Farkas had pointed out, a bigger home in the city might give the girls more room to breathe and grow, and they would be close to their friends and favorite places. But, the Apple-Bloom house and the Pelagia lot both hugged the inner walls. If werewolves were to be slipping in and out of Miel's house at night, a place outside the city seemed more suitable.

Did she even want them sharing the same roof? If they grew wilder, as Aela feared, would they one day eat her and the children alive? Would she one day wake to her own limbs and guts littering the room like the old gauntlets she had scattered the night before?

Miel's eyes strayed toward Alfhild's swollen belly. The thought of the unborn child, one more life that depended on Alduin's defeat to continue, only added to her unease. How could she possibly think of buying property at a time like this? How could Alfhild sit here laughing over an herbal brew like it was just another day?

"May I borrow a corner of your garden, Alfhild?" she asked. "I need to think for a while."

"Go ahead. If you don't mind, I'm going inside for a nap." Miel helped her to stand, and Alfhild puffed up her cheeks and blew. "Can't wait till this one is out of me. You know, if you save us all, and it's a girl, Idolaf thinks we should name her Melissa."

"Please don't."

Alfhild chuckled. "I'll see you later."

Miel would have gone to the temple grounds, but the crowd of pilgrims made her shy away. Before a bed of Bergritte's harebells, gentians, and dragon's tongue, with the Throat of the World in the distance beyond the walls, she rested on her knees and closed her eyes.

Her breath grew deep and even, and the sounds of the children with their clacking swords receded into the background, but the Words eluded her mind's grasping. It was not force or fire or fading that she needed, but Paarthurnax had not taught her more than these. What she felt, what she fought —

"When you learn a Shout, you take it into your very being," Arngeir had said. Paarthurnax had said the same: "Knowing a Word of Power is to take its meaning into yourself. You will become closer to that Word, as it fills your inner self."

What was the Word she needed, to feel some understanding in all of this?

_Raan. Animal. Strun. Storm. Faas. Fear._

_Kaan._

This last was more prayer than mantra. A beseeching.

_Faas. Strun._

Breath.

_Drem. Raan. Kaan._

_Help me_ , Miel pleaded, lightning flashing in her heart. Cold winds seemed to howl through her, her body an empty canyon. Wolf eyes watched her in the rain, and fear drenched her to her bones. But, above the massing clouds, the mountain peak sparkled in the sunlight, in the sky.

Wet spattered her face. _Help me._

"Aww!" wailed Lucia.

"Get inside, all of you!" 

_Strun. Lok._

The water trickled through her hair and beneath the collar of her tunic. It began to hammer on her skull, her shoulders, her legs. The ground beneath her grew soft.

"What about Mama?"

"I — I think she'll be fine. It's just rain."

_Strun. Kaan._

"Then, let's play in the rain!"

"No. No, NO! Lucia! Lars!"

Laughter broke out as small feet ran onto the wet cobblestones.

"Tag! You're it, Lydia!"

_Lok._

"Sofie! Come on, you know better!"

_Sky._

From the sky, the storms came. Above the storms, the sky remained. Man and beast, clean and unclean, worthy and unworthy — all bowed beneath the sky, to the storms. The torrent soaked, flooded, raged; the storms struck all in their path. They watered. They cleansed. They dissipated, evaporated, cleared away. And the sky was still there, would always be there.

Angry or calm, the face of Kyne would never turn away.

_Lok._

She needed only to raise her head, to raise her Voice, to see.

"LOK VAH KOOR!"

* * *

  
Farkas woke from his nap almost satisfied, and he greeted the third night with joy in his heart. He hadn't been this free in years. The man in his blood revolted, begged, and wept, but he paid him no mind. _See how you like it._

He stretched his limbs and sniffed at the booted leg that lay by the fire's remains, wet from another rain. The point of tearing was dark with clotting, but Farkas didn't mind. The flesh of the calf was still good. He grasped the leg and used a claw to begin peeling off the stitched leather.

New scents in the air caught his attention, and Farkas dropped the limb with a happy bark. They were back. The pack was here. The whole pack was here, something that hadn't happened in months.

On the first night, it had been just him and his brother — Vilkas! — but then he had been left alone near the mountain. On the second night, sometime after a storm, their red sister had joined them, finding Farkas in the southern mountains across the lake. But, she, too, had changed back and left with Vilkas, not feeding — feasting — as Farkas did, not staying.

Now, on this third night, a white wolf, fur thick and magnificent, crested the ridge, and Farkas's heart swelled in awe and pride.

Aela followed, coppery in the moonlight. Then came Vilkas, dark as coal. Lastly, the one-eyed gray came as a man, a slight disappointment, but Farkas was pleased all the same. It was the sight of the white wolf that delighted him the most.

Farkas howled in greeting and licked his father's snout with affection.

"By Tsun's hairy balls, he's practically feral," the gray one muttered. Skjor. He set down a large pack and surveyed the scene, the glorious, gory work of Farkas's teeth and claws.

Vilkas whined in protest, then came over and butted his head. Skjor inspected the perimeter, then began to shed his own armor in a half broken-down shelter. "Gods, Farkas," he said. "I hope these weren't innocents. What are we going to do with you?"

 _Bandits_ , groused the man in Farkas's blood — but Farkas was beginning to think that shouldn't have to matter. Prey was prey.

The white wolf barked. A scolding, from Kodlak. _Kodlak._ Aela circled them and added her own complaints. Farkas's ears went flat. Why? Weren't they glad to see him? Weren't they glad to all be here together?

But then, he heard the slight wheeze in his father's lungs, and he felt ashamed.

It was time to hunt again, though. Surely, that would make it better. There was a flock of wild goats that had bedded down nearby. There was enough for all of them, at least for a start. Then, they could go after something bigger. Sabre cats. Bears. Maybe even a mammoth this time, now that all of them were with him. They would see how good it was to hunt as they were meant to hunt. They would feed with him, keep their strength and their skins, and then stay with him out here, where they were meant to be.

_Bee._

Farkas shook his head. _No._ She wasn't out here, was she? She wasn't one of them. She was — going somewhere? Farkas fought back the attempt to remember, though he found himself sniffing the air for her traces, in the direction of the hated white mountain.

No hint of her. Too far away to chase. Someday, though. He snarled aloud at the hollering of the man in his blood. Someday, Farkas would get her.

Skjor had changed. The pack was complete in a circle around him. Farkas exulted in a howl, but they didn't join him. He made to go past his brother, to lead them toward the goats, but Vilkas and Aela closed the gap and bared their teeth. Farkas turned, and Kodlak was there, watching, imperious. Skjor growled at him, challenging him to try getting past.

Why?

Farkas snarled back. They weren't going hunting, he realized. They were going to try to keep him here, when fresh prey waited in the hills. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. He had the master's blessing. He had strength enough to beat all of them if he had to. It would hurt, but that was what they deserved. They didn't understand.

He swiped at his brother. Vilkas dodged and barked in anger. Why wouldn't Vilkas let him be? He had the blessing, too; surely he knew why Farkas was out here. Surely, he wanted to be out here, too.

Traitors, all of them. He would fight Vilkas first, then Skjor, then Aela if she didn't know what was good for her, then —

As he whirled around to face Kodlak, he heard it again, the faint rasp and rattle in his elder's chest. To Farkas, the pain of the sound was nearly worse than silver.

The eyes regarding him with such mournful disappointment were more a man's than a wolf's. Farkas stepped back and began to whine, his head low.

The white wolf had given him his blood, and the man in his blood, his name. Farkas had opened a wound in himself that he could not lick away. Yes, his father had come to join him, but at what cost?

Why didn't the elder just stay away? Why did he have to come here and show Farkas this hurt? He should have let Farkas be. They all should have let him be.

His hunger mounted, gnawed at him from the inside, but Farkas couldn't bare his teeth at any of them now. Slowly, they all settled on the ground to watch him, and Farkas followed suit, to show them he wasn't going to run.

Given a few more nights, he would have tamed the man as the man had tamed him years ago. Maybe he would get another chance, another time. But, tonight, as the hours dragged on in this circle, he bitterly let the hunger grow unsated, until he could feel his other spirit regaining its hold. There were still some things Farkas the wolf and Farkas the man still agreed on. Their father would always be one of them.

* * *

  
The wind whipped about her as she reached the peak, and Miel warmed herself with her breath.

"Hm. You've continued to practice," Paarthurnax rumbled.

Miel answered him with a gentle gout of flame and glowed with pleasure, but it did not last. The higher she climbed, the heavier the Scroll had felt. Now, it felt fully there, and heavy as a sack of firewood. Grunting, she slid it from her back and nearly dropped it in the snow.

"You have it. The Kel — the Elder Scroll. Tiid kreh qalos. Time shudders at its touch." Paarthurnax nervously flapped his wings. "There is no question. You are doom-driven. Kogaan Akatosh. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal."

Miel shivered, and not from the wind. Something was coming. Something was ending. Something was about to be set in stone forever. The Scroll felt alive, aware of a possibility among possibilities about to be plucked out of the currents of time.

"Go then. Fulfill your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound. Do not delay. Alduin will be coming."

"What?!"

"He cannot miss the signs."

Miel felt the blood drain from her face, but she stepped forward. Her eyes sought the shimmering break, the tear in the fabric of the sky at golden dawn. Standing in it, she felt pulled in all directions and none, rooted to the spot yet adrift.

So, she would be alone at the moment of truth, after all. Yet, it felt only right.

She unrolled the scroll and held it up to the light. Stars, blinding stars filled her vision, and Miel saw.

Agda, screaming in a temple bed, straining over her belly as a young Danica held her hand. "That Guillaume! I'll kill him! I'll kill him! Good-for-nothing witchman soldier son of a who — rrrraaaaAAGH!"

A man — a _twin_ — crumpled, lifeless, on the floor of a freezing tomb; a ghostly, slavering wolf keeping jealous guard over his body.

A sneering lady covered in silk and jewels, with a servant wiping a dribble of sauce from her chin. "Apologies, but given these reports from Sister Yanna, I simply cannot give you a place here, not even as a tutor. Perhaps especially not as a tutor. The young lord is impressionable, and you — make the wrong impression."

A rasping king in golden armor, with sword raised in open challenge at a defiant court. "We will not suffer this slander," he whispered.

Children fleeing the rain in the streets of Whiterun. One dark-haired youth seeking shelter under a Gildergreen in full bloom. Another yanking him back before the lightning struck.

A priest shattering his red birthright, burning with his own determination, growing — _wings_ —

A widow on the ice, impervious to the roar of the blizzard around her; dark, weeping eyes the only clue to her true age. Her armor was dragonscale — and blue ice? — beneath the pelt of a wolf; her blades were whitest bone, and drawn. Atronachs of meteorite and lightning flanked her. She walked on, into the storm.

Finally, the mountain, the place where Miel stood, yet did not stand. A man and a woman fought a dragon, until she drove her blade into his skull and the arrogance faded from his slitted eyes.

"Hakon! A glorious day, is it not?"

The man, Hakon, looked — _at her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Alfhild was pregnant at the start of the year? Boy, where did the time go?
> 
> This chapter features some lines of in-game dialogue from Arngeir, Paarthurnax, and Gormlaith.
> 
> The idea of the sky always being there is also not original to me. I used to use [Headspace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56c1uL_O8Jk), and while writing the meditation bit I found myself reaching for the same metaphor because of Kyne's ties to storm and sky. Of course, for Miel's grappling with Divines and destiny, I've given it a more spiritual flavor.


	29. Chapter 29

If Farkas still had his tail, it would be between his legs. He glumly trudged after Kodlak and Skjor on the northern road out of Falkreath hold, with Vilkas and Aela bringing up the rear. His face burned with the deepest shame.

The last time the entire pack had to bring one of their number to heel, it had been Arnbjorn. And, where was Arnbjorn now?

It had been before he and Vilkas even stood their first trial, yet the tale still served as a warning to all who lived under Jorrvaskr's beams. Farkas knew his violations were not as grave, but the association humiliated him all the same.

Vilkas came up and threw an arm around his shoulders.

"You're all right," his brother murmured.

Farkas said nothing, grateful though he was for the attempt at encouragement. His eyes kept returning to Kodlak; he feared further reproach yet longed for forgiveness. But the old man kept his eyes forward, and his ear to his right-hand man.

He should have stayed home, like they'd been told. He should have stuck with Vilkas, whose confidence in his own power was slowly growing. He would do that now, Farkas vowed. The wolf raised its hackles at the suggestion, but even it feared being shunned by the pack. If Farkas remembered this, it would obey him. At least, he hoped so.

They turned the corner and entered the Whiterun plains.

"Look at that," Aela said. 

Farkas looked up at the Throat of the World as clouds rose from it in an odd spiral shape, then dissolved to reveal only the majestic peak. The rising sun lent it a halo of pink and gold. He remembered what day it was.

"She must be reading the Scroll now," Vilkas said, as though sensing his thoughts.

Farkas felt another pang of regret. "I didn't get to see her off," he lamented.

"Not to worry, son," Kodlak then said. "You'll be in Whiterun to welcome her home, won't you?"

Farkas felt some of his shame lift at the old man's voice. He would. Of course, he would. He would get better, he would make up for scaring her and the girls, and they would all be together. He'd teach his beast that they were part of another pack, too. Blood could not be all that mattered, all that he craved or followed.

An ear-splitting roar shook the skies, and the Companions all turned toward the source. A shadow passed over them, casting their path into temporary night. Black wings spread themselves against the brightening sky.

A dragon. _The_ dragon.

"Shor's bones," Aela whispered.

It was headed for the mountain.

"No," Vilkas breathed.

_No._

Again, without a second thought, Farkas took off at a run. This time, his brother followed.

* * *

  
Miel laughed aloud, even as tears streamed down her face, the lost Words suffusing her very being. This was what the dragons feared? This was what Arngeir had denounced as a great evil, not knowing how closely it was tied to his own nature, to hers, to the nature of all whose lives were mere droplets in the river of time? But, this was what had consumed her since Sky Haven Temple, what Alduin himself sought to impose by his own return. Alduin feared what she knew more intimately than any dovah, simply because she was born human.

 _Joor, zah, frul_. Mortal, finite, and temporary.

Great wingbeats sounded in the sky, announcing her adversary's arrival.

"Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor, Dovahkiin. Die now, and await your fate in Sovngarde!"

Miel looked up at Alduin, as fearsome as he had been at Helgen, and felt a sense of reckoning and anticipation, even familiarity, where before there had only been fear. Her spirit had been half asleep when last they met; now, she felt her own power coursing through her veins.

"Lost funt. You are too late, Alduin!" Paarthurnax bellowed. "Dovahkiin! Use Dragonrend, if you know it!"

Alduin opened his mouth and called a storm. As at Helgen, the booming sound shook Miel to her core, but this time, she recognized the sensation. It was the sheer power of his Thu'um. He was the firstborn dragon, older than all, determined to be the last when he brought about the end. All of the doubt Miel had felt since Sky Haven Temple flooded her now.

The sky above began to churn in a furious red. Meteors began to pelt the ground. There was nowhere on the peak for cover; she had to dodge or be crushed.

She could see herself as he saw her. She was no one. She was ordinary. She had been far too lucky. If the gods had chosen her for this, then they were choosing the end of the age, because who was she, to stand against Alduin? Only a mortal. A pitiful human, no true dovah, unworthy. Now, all of that would be finally exposed.

 _Joor_. Miel threw herself out of a meteor's path. Alduin didn't see, didn't understand. She already knew all this about herself.

Paarthurnax took to the air, and the old foes began to battle on the wind, trading flames as though blows from steel. "Unslaad hokoron!" he roared.

Another meteor landed at her feet, and a new, far simpler thought took hold. If today was the day Miel died, it would at least be in Alduin's jaws, not by some rocks falling from the sky.

"LOK VAH KOOR!"

Red clouds dissipated into clearest blue, and instinct finally took over. She summoned a flame atronach, bound a sword, and unsheathed a notched elven dagger. More than ever, she wished for wings of her own, to join Paarthurnax in taking his brother down.

"He is too strong on the wing! Bring him to gol with Dragonrend!"

The clarity of Lok swelled in her lungs, and she exhaled to make way for Joor. For herself. For everyone who mattered. Farkas. Vilkas. Sofie. Lucia. Her father. Lydia, and all of Whiterun. Alfhild's child, waiting for the gift of time.

"Maar saraan ko Sovngarde!" Alduin boomed.

Miel did not know his precise meaning, but she knew what Sovngarde was, and another laugh escaped her throat. She had faced undead overlords, bandit chiefs, seasoned soldiers, and even a Thu'um-wielding king; had taken the souls of so many dov, even without Dragonrend; had seen war, mutilation, destruction, and near starvation this past year; and had even suffered the claws of the ones she loved. Death had been part of her almost as soon as she set foot in Skyrim; she had no reason to fear it anymore — but Alduin did.

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"

The very fibers of her being seemed to reach for his. Miel felt as though she herself soared into the sky, took hold of Alduin, and dragged him to the snowy ground.

Alduin roared as she rushed forward bodily to meet him. "You may have picked up the weapons of my ancient foes, but you are not their equal!" 

"No, I am not!" she cried, leaping away from his teeth. She darted beneath his wing and began carving into his side. "But I intend to surpass them by the end of this day!"

* * *

The sky above the peak swirled red, then blue, then red again. Vilkas, heartsick, willed his legs to carry him across the plain. He and Farkas were apace now, and he could not tell if the dread in the air was his brother's or his own.

Fort Greymoor and the Western Watchtower grew on the horizon, and Vilkas cursed the vastness of the fields. How were they still so far away?

The beast would have taken him to the foothills in half the time, but the sun was up, and the hunting hour, gone. Vilkas forced the thought from his mind. Now was not the time for his hunger.

The others weren't following; he didn't need to look back to know. Now was not the time to worry about forgiveness, either. If his love fell today, there would be no time left at all.

The sound of distant thunder seemed to carry echoes of her Voice. How was she faring? Did the soldiers go with her to the peak? No. Vilkas knew, deep down, that Miel was alone.

 _We were supposed to be there._ He'd pried it out of Lydia while Miel and Farkas messed about with armor that night. Ulfric, Galmar, and some other Stormcloaks would meet her in the Reach. She had dispatched a request to Castle Dour for the medic and the archer who had been with her at Karthspire. Vilkas had intended to argue his way into the party as soon as Miel returned from the Throat of the World.

_We were supposed to fight him together. I was supposed to be at your side._

Beyond the meadery, near White River Watch, the nausea began to creep through his body. Vilkas wanted to blame his fatigue; minding Farkas had kept them up all evening. But, he knew what it was. Even now, despite his intentions, the mountain was rejecting him. The higher they went through the foothills, the more Kyne would punish him; by carrying the blood, he was profaning her slopes. He took the stones in his path, the branches that clawed at his clothes and his face, as both warning and reproach.

 _Please_ , he begged. _Let me go to her. Mother of Nords, mother of men and beasts — I am also your son._

Farkas dropped to his knees and began to dry heave. Even as his own head throbbed and his stomach churned, Vilkas sensed that it was so much worse for his brother. He knelt and took Farkas by the shoulders.

"Come on. Get up!"

Above them, the storm continued to rage.

* * *

  
"My teeth to your neck, Dovahkiin!"

Miel lunged, but the power of Dragonrend faded, and she began to summon her breath once more as Alduin took to the air. The sword in her right hand flickered back to Oblivion, and her reflexes called forth a new one. How long had they been going now?

This was unlike any battle she had ever fought. There was no slipping into the rush of triumph, no being carried by bloodlust and glory. Though it sometimes felt as though greater powers were on her side, the only power at her disposal, if she was to win this, was her own. Paarthurnax served to distract him, but it was her fate bound up with Alduin's, her will that had to prove superior to his.

The rhythm she sought was precise, calculated. Every thrust of her blade, every step, every breath required all her focus — the breath most of all. Whenever Dragonrend released its hold on Alduin, she had only a moment to decide whether to ground him again or to clear the skies of his violent storms. Strun against Lok. Dovah against Joor. _Tinvaak los grah._

Her enemy had broken her left arm with a well-timed swipe, and she was fighting off-handed now, though her left hand could still manage the atronach summons. The elven dagger had become one more weapon lost in the flurry. Pain shot up her leg whenever she stepped on her left foot as well, and she was half-blind with her right eyelids swollen shut. Whatever skin was exposed to the elements was exposed to his scorching flames.

But, he was flagging, too. Miel could feel it. Every time she wrenched him from the skies with Dragonrend, every time her blade sank beneath his scales, between his spines, she could sense Alduin weakening. His Thu'um began to carry the slightest tremble, and she drew strength from it as she drew breath.

Miel staggered as another meteor crashed, sending her onto her side with an awful crunch. Her hand closed around the Elder Scroll, discarded in the bloody slush, and Felldir's voice rang forth from the past in her mind. She shook it off. No more buying time. No more sending him out, only for him to return and curse someone else's fate. _Zah_. _This ends with me._

She felt the wind beating onto her back as Alduin hovered above her, ready to dive. Miel forced herself to her feet as her own vitality swirled with the Words in her lungs. Alduin Shouted, and she answered, blade flaming in her ready hand.

* * *

  
There was no way up the mountain in the storm. Meteorites the size of boulders, unlike anything Vilkas had ever seen, were pouring down from the peak, bringing snow down with them. Shaking with fever, he and Farkas had managed to shelter beneath an overhang, somewhere above where the Stormcloaks used to camp, but far, far below High Hrothgar still. They huddled together like children caught out without their cloaks.

Farkas could go no farther. There was nothing for them to do but to wait until the storm truly subsided. It came and went quickly, with no certain intervals. The sky darkened and lightened as though the sun was a lamp, and someone was playing with shadows.

At the same time, Vilkas dreaded the storm's end, because then it meant the battle's end, and his mind kept turning to the worst possible outcome. He found himself keeping count whenever the skies cleared, the way Kodlak had taught them to count between thunderclaps, to know the distance of a storm. His ears strained for the ringing of her Voice as though it were her own heartbeat.

There was another he listened for beside him. Farkas fluttered in and out of fitful sleep, his wolf spirit still revolting against the mountain's wrath.

Vilkas shuddered at the memory of how they had found him, fur matted with the blood of the Knifepoint bandit clan, eyes red as Masser when it was full, the wolf's control nearly complete. They had all been shocked at how quickly and how far the change had gone; it meant Hircine's gift had a tighter grasp on the twins' souls than before. If he lost his brother to the Huntsman completely, would Vilkas have been compelled to follow?

His own wolf spirit had resettled, begrudgingly, into the routines of Jorrvaskr, but it had been eager to feast with his brother that first night near Bleak Falls. Farkas had been greedy that night, giving more than their usual tug-of-war for a share of their kills, and it had taken every ounce of Vilkas's willpower not to keep hunting with him to sate his own hunger.

When he changed back and Farkas didn't, running off to find more prey, Vilkas tracked him anyway, partly out of concern but also partly out of jealousy. The beast in his blood had sulked. Look how natural, how easy it can be, it seemed to say. He only stopped when Farkas ventured across the border, into Falkreath hold.

" — FRUL!"

A clear echo. She was still there.

If all three of them made it off this mountain alive, Vilkas was not going to let Farkas or Miel out of his sight. Farkas needed to get himself under control, and Miel — Miel deserved to do whatever she wanted for the rest of her life, but she deserved a good, long rest first of all.

There was a movement at the corner of his eye. Once again, Aela had come to retrieve them.

"Icebrains. You're the only ones I know who'd run _toward_ where the sky is falling," she drawled. Her expression then shifted into worry. Even the Huntress grew uneasy around the Throat of the World, but no one in the Circle had ever been affected as the twins were now.

"You're still being punished for the gift you didn't ask for, I see." Seeing the consequences of the added power had eroded some of Aela's envy, but there was still bitterness there. "Can you move?"

Vilkas nodded. "I am less sure of Farkas," he added.

" — KOOR!"

Aela sighed. "You two need to get away from here. I don't know why you thought you could help. The mountain will kill you before you even see the Greybeards' door."

Supporting Farkas between them, they picked their way down the mountain. Aela had worked out where rock walls and boulders could shield them from the meteors while they waited for the clear intervals, but with the heavier twin struggling to walk with them, there were still near misses and new bruises. It was hard going, with small rockslides forcing them to change paths or stumble.

Still, Vilkas kept his ears tuned to the storm, and counted the moments when it cleared.

"It's been a few hours," Aela said. "She's a tough one, your Bee."

Behind a large boulder, she slipped Farkas's arm off her shoulder, and Vilkas leaned him against the rock. He grunted. They were not far now from White River Watch, and the mountain's effects were easing. Aela made them sip some healing potion, in case it might help.

The rumble of meteorites on the slopes faded, too, and Vilkas began his count again. _One. Two._

"Shall we get moving again, while it's clear?" Aela asked. "Can you walk yourself now?"

Farkas groaned.

Vilkas's heart began to beat faster as the count went on. He hadn't heard her Voice this time. Perhaps the falling stones had only drowned it out — ?

"— twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty — "

The storm was not returning, either. He swallowed. Could it be?

He scrambled to his feet and away from the boulder to look up at the peak. The sky was blue again, as though nothing had transpired this late spring morning.

"— thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two — "

It was over. Vilkas forced himself to take deep breaths as his eyes searched the peak for a sign, as his ears strained for an echo. His eyes began to sting.

_Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three._

"Ysmir's beard." Aela gasped. "Is that it, then?" She stepped away from Farkas to look up at Vilkas's side. "Are we saved?"

A deep yet piercing cry shattered the quiet, and cold dread gripped his heart. Black wings darkened the sky as Alduin left the peak.

"No. Oh, gods, no," Aela cried.

"No," Vilkas echoed softly. He sank to his knees. Frantically, his eyes roved the peak, even as the tears began to stream.

He'd lost count. He needed to start again.

_One._

"What's happening?" Farkas asked weakly.

"Come — come on," Aela managed. She began to pull on Vilkas's arm. "We need to get him out of here."

"Vilkas, what's happening?"

_Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

"Miel," he whispered. Begged.

_Fifteen. Sixteen._

"Vilkas!" Aela cried. "Don't do this now!"

"She's all right, isn't she Vilkas? That sound — what was that sound?"

Aela pulled again. "We need to get Farkas home. Vilkas? The girls are waiting at home."

The girls. Gods above, what was he going to tell the girls?

The thought of Lucia brought him staggering to his feet again.

"Twenty-six," he mumbled. His eyes were still glued to the peak. "Miel." _Please_.

Movement. A sudden lifting of mist. Vilkas's breath caught in his throat as he realized that the strange spiral cloud was forming and rising again.

" — KOOR!"

"Shor's broken, bloody bones," Aela cried.

She was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains lines of the dragons' dialogue from the game. During this sequence, Paarthurnax and Alduin speak translations almost immediately afterward. I chose not to include the translations because I very much doubted they would actually spare a moment for Miel's benefit in the middle of battle. Paarthurnax wants her to seize the moment, and Alduin likes lording her inferiority over her.
> 
> I'm still struggling with the pacing of things as we get to the end of the Alduin business and what is starting to feel like a natural end to the story. Part of the trouble is not wanting to retread the battle at the Throat of the World too much, since we've all gone through it (unless you're one of those fandom-blind unicorns — in which case, welcome, and I hope this isn't too confusing!). Another concern was that the characters have already gone through believing Miel was dead, so I didn't want to end on a cliffhanger just to jerk poor Vilkas's chain some more. What do you guys think?
> 
> Yes, this fic will go on for only a few more chapters, and then I'll need to take an even longer break to deal with personal stuff. But, I do have ideas for what's next.
> 
> One is my own take on the Companions storyline — post-Alduin, with a focus on the search for the cure. I originally planned to go through it in this same story, but I feel that "The Bee and the Wolves" is reaching a proper conclusion, and the twins' journey deserves more care. Miel will become more of a side character as we pay more attention to how Farkas and Vilkas struggle with control, along with their final decision regarding the blood.
> 
> The other idea is a short Jergen prequel that's been rattling around in my brain for a bit.
> 
> If you've enjoyed my writing so far, thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around!


	30. Chapter 30

Master Wulfgar saw to Miel's injuries while the anxious troops camped outside High Hrothgar sent footmen — one red, one blue — to Dragonsreach with the news. From there, they would relay to Castle Dour and the Palace of the Kings. The Dragonborn had defeated Alduin and sent him into a retreat. She now intended to track him down and finish him off.

Again, the city of Whiterun entered into a spirit of celebration — as Paarthurnax noted, it was still a victory — though the revelry was tempered, cautious this time. The fight was not yet over.

Miel knew nothing of what went on below, only that she was exhausted, but restful sleep would not come to her stone bed at High Hrothgar. Fragments of what she had seen in the Elder Scroll flitted in and out of her dreams. Agda in labor. The twin in the tomb. The blazing tree. The impassioned priest. The warrior widow in the storm.

Waking, Miel could not quite call these dreams nightmares, but they spooked her all the same. The things one saw in a Scroll were fixed only if they became true, and she could not say from when in the stream of time the visions had come.

It had been Farkas in the tomb, though. Of that, she was somehow sure. And the woman grieving in the blizzard — she knew that woman's face better than anyone. Her heart pounded at what it all could mean.

Miel slid off the thinly covered slab and crept out of the temple, into the courtyard, where the high wind caressed her nape and scalp. It was an unfamiliar sensation, as was the tightness on parts of her skin, including her face. Miel ruefully remembered that the Greybeards kept no mirrors, and she feared the worst. Wulfgar was as skilled a healer as Danica, but he likely spared no thought for his patient's vanity.

There were a few clouds in the sky, but the stars were there, winking at her in the night. Warming herself with her breath, Miel walked barefoot through the gate to the edge of the plateau and looked down. Whiterun twinkled, too, with the light of lanterns and hearth fires. She could just see the shape of Jorrvaskr at the city's edge.

She breathed. The widow's fury flashed in her mind, as did the eyes of the ghostly wolf guarding Farkas's body. It meant there was a possible future; that was all it was, she told herself. It meant there were things to change before it was too late. It meant there was life still waiting to be lived, after Alduin.

Miel seized on this thought and took another breath, expanding her lungs to take in the thin, cold mountain air. Paarthurnax said her destiny was her own. Prophecy did not rule her life unless she let it. The visions meant nothing unless she let them, and they could wait. She had a dragon to trap.

* * *

  
The following evening, after a brief hunt, Farkas and Vilkas followed Skjor back through the Underforge. They'd caught two deer, barely enough to sate their appetites, near Shimmermist Cave. Skjor had forced Farkas to feed last, further depriving the beast of what it craved. But, it knew better to comply than to not feed at all.

"I'll be glad when you can go a night without," Skjor muttered, "or at least when Vilkas can keep you in line. Aela and I have our own things to do, and the old man's not going to stir himself for you again."

Farkas flinched. Kodlak had been quick to forgive, knowing what happened at the Throat of the World that morning, but Farkas still felt all the shame he thought he deserved. He hated knowing he was the cause of more wear on the Harbinger's soul. To even think Kodlak could one day give up on him, let him go — he could not bear it.

Time to drown his misery in mead, and to try not to give in to the barmaids' flirting. He had to try to be better.

Skjor suddenly drew up short by the rear doors, and Farkas smelled the reason before the older man even said it.

"We have guests."

Longing, trepidation, and more guilt washed over Farkas, suddenly rooted to the cobblestones. How would she see him now?

His brother laid a hand on his shoulder. "We've already hunted. The whole pack is here, and a few others besides. You're safe. She's safe."

Farkas took the assurance, only to swallow it as other thoughts took hold. The wolf in his blood was unsatisfied still.

He could channel his hunger. He could take her downstairs and not let her leave for a night and a day. He could chase after their pleasure, taste her without breaking her skin, and leave her completely spent. Weak. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from his grasp.

And then, when night came again, he would let her go, just to see how fast, how far she could run.

_No._

Farkas shuddered at himself. Three nights as a wolf without changing back — he wasn't sure whose hungers were whose anymore.

"Tsun's balls," Skjor grumbled again. "You're not fifteen, man. You're to keep your hands to yourselves or your drinks. Both of you." Farkas saw a smirk cross Vilkas's face. "Sit across her, not next to her. Respect the other guests. Matter of fact, we're going downstairs to wash up a bit before joining the party."

But, when Skjor opened the door, Farkas's roiling mind gave way to one feeling: alarm.

Miel's scalp was shorn almost clean, and her dark, expressive brows were gone. Vines and craters of burnt tissue screamed from her face and arms. More souvenirs.

"By Ysmir, woman! What happened to you?" Vilkas cried.

Miel shrank. Even Farkas knew that was a stupid question. He saw the hurt in her eyes and swallowed.

"Welcome back," he said gently.

He had one moment to say something right.

"I bet we should see the other guy."

She broke into a smile then, and it filled him with warmth and heartache. He needed to take her in his arms, show her how glad he was that she was still in one piece, cover her scars with kisses, and then ask her how they would make Alduin pay. Otherwise, he would never let her go again.

His blood coursed with the wolf's approval, and Farkas swam in the feeling, attempting to direct its desire. _You know she's important_ , he told the beast. _We keep her because she's important. She isn't prey. The pack protects her._

The wolf snapped in protest, but Farkas sensed its doubt, too. The seed was planted. They needed to tread carefully.

"Are you all right, Farkas?"

Her voice broke through his thoughts from where she sat, at the center of the table closest to the fragments of Wuuthrad. Jarl Balgruuf sat to her right; Kodlak, to her left; and Aela, to his left. Irileth the housecarl scowled at the new arrivals from her post, by the main door.

"Haven't seen you since our family dinner," Bee continued, questioning him with her eyes. "Lucia and Sofie are arguing over whether you've got troll thirst or swamp fever."

He smiled faintly. "I'm all right," he replied. "Just need to freshen up after being out. Give us a moment, and we'll join you."

"Hurry up, lad," Kodlak said with a smile. "The Dragonborn insisted she would tell the story only once, and we've been waiting for you."

Farkas noted the hour, as well as the circles under her eyes. Why was she even here, in Jorrvaskr? Why didn't she wait till morning?

"I wanted to see you," she said, as if in answer. "I thought I'd show you I was alive, in case you got it into your head to run off again."

Skjor let out a short bark of a laugh as Farkas cringed. His pride was just going to have to suffer some more, until he was again master of himself.

In the quarters, he scrubbed himself with a washcloth, pulled on a fresh shirt, hastily smoothed his beard, and tied back his hair.

Troll thirst. The last known case of troll thirst had been before the girls were even born; where did they get such an idea? One of the symptoms was murderous delirium — had he frightened Lucia that much before he left?

"Great start to fatherhood, Farkas. Just great," he mumbled. "The girls think you're mad and diseased."

Really, they didn't know how close they were to the truth.

He sighed, resolute. He just had to start over. He was going upstairs to listen to her story — and it would be a fantastic story, because Dibellan craft always took over once Bee got started with a story. He was not going to drink too much. He and Vilkas were going to walk her home and not invite themselves inside. And in the morning, when Lucia came looking for them at Jorrvaskr, he would show her he was all better — swamp fever was a reasonable cover, actually — and that there was nothing to fear.

Skjor was waiting for him in the corridor.

"I'll be good," Farkas said, reproached by his shield-brother's warning eyes. _I will_.

When they returned to the mead hall, it was more crowded than when they had left. The rest of the Companions had roused themselves. The local Legate and Commander had caught wind and insisted on coming in, and the Jarl's brother Hrongar and eldest son Frothar had slipped through the doors as well. No one wanted to miss the Dragonborn's tale.

As Miel began to speak, Brill edged close and slipped something into Farkas's hand: a fresh journal, with a stick of dark wax. Farkas could have hugged the man.

The room hung on to her every word. Miel told them how she had looked into the past at a rip in time and learned the Shout called Dragonrend from the old Tongues. She told them how Alduin had appeared soon afterward, and how the battle raged. How they had fought to control the very sky through ancient words. How fearsome he was, and how powerful! How he had broken her bones and scorched her flesh. How she somehow kept getting up again, and how her blade somehow kept finding purchase in his thick hide. How she knew she was winning, and how the coward had finally flown away.

Her eyes shone, and the rise and fall of her voice was the only sound in the room, if Farkas ignored the crackle of the fire, and the racing hearts of an audience enthralled. Bee allowed herself a measure of pride, but she was not boastful. At other times, she glowed with wonder, as if awed by her own survival. She had fought an old god and returned to the ground.

Farkas found himself faltering as he sketched and simply stared for longer and longer. How was this the same woman he'd seen in Last Seed: a nervous scout, out of breath, wearing borrowed armor and the face of a childhood friend? How was this the little sprout he'd seen crawling, as bald then as she was now, across the temple garden one summer day? The girl he'd known, this woman he loved, a bundle of laughing warmth that once weighed nothing on his shoulders and now fit perfectly in the crook of his body — how could she possibly contain the power to pull the World-Eater out of the sky?

_And we tried to rip her to shreds._

"But, where has he gone now?" Hjornskar cried. "How will we find him?"

Miel cast an anxious look at the Jarl. "I think that's something to discuss in Dragonsreach, in the daylight," she replied.

Balgruuf raised his brows in intrigue.

Now that she was done, the spell broke, and Bee was peppered with questions. Where was the Elder Scroll now? Why didn't she go blind? Did Alduin give no clue to where he was going? How long were his horns? His teeth? What kind of armor would be best against him next time? What sort of point or blade?

She answered or evaded as best she could, and then the Legate interrupted, saving her from the small crowd.

"If we're planning in the daytime, you'd better get some rest, Quaestor," Quentin said.

She started in her seat at the mention of her old rank, and Farkas caught the movement of her brow. Now that she had won against Alduin, the Legion would be keen to claim her again. But of course, buying the world a little more time was enough to forgive desertion.

She looked at him and Vilkas now, and Farkas straightened up, shutting the journal abruptly.

"We'll walk you home," Vilkas said.

"We have a guard unit for that," Hjornskar put in.

"Should've stayed on the mountain," Bee murmured, so softly that only the wolves could hear. "Let them follow, if they must," she added aloud, "but don't tell me they're taking over goodnight kisses as well."

Most of the room laughed, and the officers stepped back and grumbled to themselves. This was not their hall or barracks.

As the brothers made their way across the room, Kodlak was shaking Bee's hand.

"We'll be waiting," the Harbinger was saying. "I'll keep an eye on him. And, thank you for telling me. There might yet be a future, as you say. That alone gives me hope, regardless of what you might have seen."

They both looked at the twins then, and Farkas shivered with foreboding. He'd missed something. While he was hunting, or while he'd been downstairs, she'd passed Kodlak a secret. Something that frightened her.

"I'll tell you some other time," she said, before he could ask. "Let's get out of here. I think I'll be able to fall asleep now."

Something that kept her from rest.

Outside, she pulled them both into a tight hug, and Farkas was grateful that she wanted him so close. He kissed the dark fuzz atop her head.

"I'm so proud of you," he said. He ran his hands over her scalp and brushed the sharp hairline at the back of her neck. He liked the shape of her bare head, he decided, though he was perturbed by how much smaller it made her seem.

Bee sighed and rubbed her nape. "I know it's stupid," she replied with a slight pout, "but I miss my hair."

* * *

  
They went past the Gildergreen and into the Wind District, where it was quiet, instead of down to the market square. Vilkas kept a hand on her shoulder and pointedly ignored the guards.

"How long are they going to keep this up?" he asked. He steered their trio into a side street, just to hear the soldiers scramble to follow.

Bee shrugged. "Until it's all over, I suppose."

"And then? Suddenly, you're Quaestor again? If they're intent on keeping you, you should at least be Tribune."

Miel didn't reply, and he decided to drop it.

Most residents of the Wind District were fast a sleep, but there were still lamps lit in odd corners, sounds of stirring or shuffling, and the occasional growl of a dog or cat to give signs of life. Summer was drawing closer and closer; windows were open to let in the breeze. It was a perfect night for a walk.

They came upon a house completely dark, and Miel stopped with a small gasp of surprise. Vilkas felt a pang of nostalgia as he looked up at the shuttered windows. This was the old Apple-Bloom place. Hanna Apple-Bloom had lived here.

At seventeen, Vilkas had narrowly escaped a furious Harald Apple-Bloom once, by jumping out of his daughter's window in breeches and little else. She was now Lady Hanna Seven-Swords of Windhelm, but he remembered her fondly. Tawny-haired Hanna, with the green eyes and the ample —

"Why are you smiling?" Miel asked.

Vilkas caught himself, but Farkas grinned and nudged him in the ribs.

"Vilkas has seen every corner of this house," he replied, "including corners he wasn't supposed to be."

Miel chuckled. Then, she vaulted over the fence and began to circle the building in curiosity.

"Don't tell me you want the grand tour," Vilkas said. But, she only stopped in the garden, nibbled on overgrown herbs, and stared up at the windows.

Farkas pointed. "That's the window where — oof!" It was his turn to get an elbow. "I was only going to say that's how I used to get in!" he protested.

Vilkas's jaw dropped in surprise.

"Sorry," Farkas added sheepishly. "Before Hanna became a Seven-Swords, she had, ah, seven swords."

"And quite a few sheaths," Miel remarked. Her smile widened into a knowing grin. "Lydia has told me some things."

Vilkas stared as a piece of his youth changed its shape forever. He'd liked Hanna.

He cleared his throat. The sting of betrayal passed easily; it was half a lifetime too late. "Why are we here?" he asked.

Even from across the yard, he could sense Bee's face grow warm in the dark.

"Alfhild said this house was for sale," she replied softly. "Since we came this way, I thought I'd take a closer look."

Farkas's laughter faded then, and Vilkas felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.

"When I read the Elder Scroll, it was to look into the past," she said, "but I saw a future, too. A few possible ones — none of them looking too bright." She glanced warily at Farkas, so quickly that Vilkas almost missed it. "But none of them settled, either. So, I'm trying to imagine a future that I chart myself — a vision from my own mind, not from fate."

"Is that even possible?" Farkas asked.

Bee smiled. "People think it's my destiny to beat Alduin. But, Alduin thinks he's following his destiny, too. Two conflicting destinies can't be right."

"They could," Vilkas said, unable to stop himself. "You defeated him this time. Next time might be — "

Farkas shot him an angry look, but Miel gave a slow nod, her smile cryptic. "Ever the hopeful one, Vilkas," she said drily.

He apologized.

"So, this vision of yours," Farkas then said, gesturing at the house, "you see yourself here?" His voice softened. "You see us here?"

Miel's smile turned shy, but hopeful. "You tell me. It is big enough for us to share. But, I know you love Jorrvaskr, and Aela did tell me you were having a, ah — " she glanced at the guards standing across the street " — a crisis of spirits."

That was one way of putting it. 

Vilkas looked back at the house with a new sense of longing, repainting his memories with scenes of possibility. Here was the kitchen door, by which Farkas would peel potatoes or dress fowl. Here was the garden where Sofie would plant ingredients of her own. Here was the gabled nook where he would read to Lucia. And, on the southeastern side of the house, facing the mountain, was the room where Bee could begin and end her days with him and Farkas by her side. No more silly upstairs rule. Only a normal life.

But then, he looked at Farkas, fidgeting and restless as his eyes followed Bee around the house. His arms were crossed tight, elbows clamping his hands to his sides. He was biting the inside of his cheek and forcing himself to slow his breath. The rebellion in his blood was not yet over. The air around him was tainted with his hunger and frustration.

In Jorrvaskr this evening, surrounded by the pack, at a distance from Bee, and entranced by her story, Farkas had been fine. But, the longer they were out here, the less the wolf cared that they were still in the city, being watched by her guard detail. It knew only that the night had some hours left, and only delicious things would come if he could only get her to himself in the dark.

Vilkas knew this because his own beast was urging him on, too, but he mostly had it in hand. Hadn't he been hunting alone, even before she and Farkas came home from their absences? Hadn't he been good, staying in Whiterun hold, keeping to routine, and bonding with the girls? Didn't Skjor just say he would soon trust Vilkas to keep his brother in line?

It was Vilkas who didn't trust himself. Alone with his brother near Bleak Falls, his beast had cried to follow Farkas's example, to run from his own restraint and give in to the call of unending hunt. Here in the Apple-Bloom garden, where Bee's scent joined the fragrance of bruised herbs, late spring flowers, charged memories, and longing, it watched him in anticipation, waiting for him to seize the opportunity — to seize her.

"I understand. You're not ready," Bee said, breaking the silence. There was no surprise, no disappointment in her voice, and somehow, that hurt Vilkas more than if there had been.

"I don't think I am, either," she added. "But, I will be, sometime after all of this is through." She drew close and took Vilkas's hand. "Even if you still aren't, I'll save room for you."

Farkas swallowed, and she went to him next, stroking his face.

"Your guards are getting nervous," he said, reluctantly stepping back. "It's time you got home."

As they hopped back over the fence, Vilkas looked back at the house with a new ache. If they were ready, they would have been home.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I wanted to post all the remaining chapters once I was done with them, but I reached a point where it felt important for the story and me to show some signs of life, and also to keep me from picking at it excessively and just move forward.

Balgruuf was shocked at Miel's plan, but he would never let it be said that he denied the Dragonborn in so great a time of need. He ordered the palace porch reinforced, the trap inspected, parts repaired or replaced if necessary, and the great chains oiled. A dragon would be trapped in Dragonsreach once more, for the first time since the age of King Olaf One-Eye.

"This will take several days, possibly a week or two, Dovahkiin. Is there anything else to be done, anything else I can help you with?" the Jarl asked.

There was a touch of worry in his voice, as though Miel might ask for something even more outrageous. Using his palace to trap a dragon — one of Alduin's lieutenants, no less — was bad enough. She smiled and shook her head.

"I am not sure what else we can do without knowing where Alduin is just yet," she said. "While waiting, I plan only to train, and to spend time with my family."

The World-Eater had caught her by surprise, when she was half recovering from Blackreach still. Miel vowed she would be in peak form when they met again.

Balgruuf nodded approvingly, then turned to his housecarl. "Irileth, can we draw up a schedule with the best trainers in the hold for our friend here? I'm sure they can't say no if it comes from me."

Irileth gave an arch smile. "I'm sure they can't say no to her. They're down in Jorrvaskr."

Miel blinked as warmth swirled in her cheeks. "I — I'm not a Companion."

Balgruuf snorted with a dismissive wave. "I'm sure they'll make an exception for you. These are exceptional times, and you are an exceptional person. Especially to certain Companions." He grinned. "If it will set you at ease, I'll give you an official letter of request. Proventus!"

"Jarl Balgruuf, really, it's not necessary."

He made a meaningful nod over his shoulder, in the direction of the former war table upstairs. "It'll take it from their hands as well," he said, lowering his voice. "They can hardly complain about me getting you the best trainers. And isn't it their fault, really, that the armies haven't got the best?"   
  
Miel couldn't help grinning, too. She and Balgruuf had agreed to meet earlier to avoid interference. He could always blame it on his own whims when he informed the commanders later.

"When do you plan to resign?" the Jarl continued, voice still low.

"Sir?"

"I see it in your eyes whenever they are around. I commend your steadfastness to your oath, but you shouldn't belong to either side. You now fight for all of us."

"You chose a side," she pointed out.

"When my city was under threat. When Ulfric thought to take it while we were still in our cups and in our beds. I never would have if we'd known of Alduin," he said, bitterness seeping in. "I would have demanded a truce, instead of sending you with my axe."

Miel grimaced, remembering that early ride in the cold. How long ago New Life felt now! It was practically a different person who had borne that axe to Windhelm.

"We're now under truce."

"Now," the Jarl echoed. "But, there are doubts that it will hold. Say you defeat Alduin; what then? I doubt the Thalmor will grant any concessions on Talos worship, and the Legion will be pressed to enforce the Concordat and arrest Ulfric once more. And, doubtless, many Nords are only waiting to bear arms again in his name. You would have to draw your blade against your own people again, Thane of Whiterun."

Miel balked.

"And there's another war coming," he said darkly, "against a common foe, if the rebels can only see it. It might not be this year, or the next, but this greater war is coming. Do you want to be at the Legion's disposal when it does? Do you see yourself as one of the Legates, leading the charge? Because, I know that's where Tullius sees you."

Her heart sank. She wanted to see herself here in Whiterun, contented and at peace.

"I meant to take these things one at a time. First, Alduin, then everything else," Miel said. Then, a life of her own.

But, Balgruuf was right. Even as she worked to save the world, there were forces planning to plunge it into yet more war and conflict.

Elenwen's face swam before her, then Rulindil's, smirking and superior. He was dead, yet Miel was sure the Ambassador had already replaced him with his like. Perhaps, like everyone else, they were biding their time until they knew what fate awaited them all. But, Miel would not be surprised if they were scheming to stay one step ahead. It was why she put up with the guards. It was why she told the gathering at Jorrvaskr that the Elder Scroll had vanished on the mountain, when she'd only stuffed it into a corner cupboard at High Hrothgar. Arngeir hated it, but even he knew it had to stay out of warmongers' reach.

What troubled Miel, in the back of her mind, was the fact the Scroll hadn't disappeared at all. Somehow, she had expected it to, as though the reason it had waited in Blackreach long after the Dwemer had gone was now past. Did that mean it still had more to reveal? Or was what she had read about Elder Scrolls going their own way merely myth?

She shuddered. She'd had the dreams again, fainter, perhaps because the Scroll's effects were fading, or because it was far away. But she'd seen some new things, too — black tendrils reaching for her face, and a circle of moths. More was coming. She needed freedom to face it.

Miel looked up as the Steward entered the room.

"Proventus," she said, "may I trouble you for some ink and paper?"

* * *

  
The midmorning sun shone hot on Farkas's back. He straddled the keel of the Jorrvaskr and drove the next nail in with two blows of the hammer, quick and strong.

"Got the next pieces ready, Lucia?" he called down. "You tie the knot like I showed you?"

"Yes, Uncle Farkas!"

A practice arrow sailed upwards, trailing a length of rope behind it. Farkas snatched it out of the air.

"Careful, now! Nearly got my knee. What's Aela teaching you, huh?"

Giggles bubbled up from the yard as Farkas hauled up more wood. With the spring rains past, it was a good time to conduct repairs around the hall, and it wasn't as though he had somewhere else to be. Below him, other Companions went about their drills. Vilkas and Kodlak were in the study, at the old man's research.

"Can I come up there, Uncle Farkas? Can you see everything?"

Farkas considered it. He'd first gotten up here when he was a little younger than Lucia, and he wouldn't mind the company. "Not scared of heights, are you?"

"I don't know. I've never been higher than the Valentias' tree."

"Hm."

He retied the loop in the rope and threw it down. "Put your foot in that and hold tight with both hands. I'll pull you up." He felt the rope grow taut as she obeyed, then he slowly began to pull.

"Oof! You been sneaking sweetrolls out of the lower mess again?" It took him as much effort as hauling up the planks, which was nearly none, but he liked making the little girl laugh.

When he'd drawn her up high enough, he showed her where to hold onto the old ship to climb a bit, and then he helped her astride the keel.

"Wow!" she gasped. "You can see almost everything from up here!"

He smiled to himself; her breath did, in fact, bear traces of sweetroll icing and cinnamon. She smelled of sawdust, too, and her pet dog, as well as the polish the new bloods used on the display weapons.

"Good, you're not scared. Now, I'm going to leave you up here to do the hammering, and I'll get down so I can hand you the wood."

"Hey!"

Farkas laughed aloud. "Here, pass me the chisel."

Lucia watched him work for a while, holding the basket and handing him tools and nails on request. He liked working up here in the sun. Anything so mundane, anything that required his hands like this didn't interest the wolf, so he felt very much himself at the moment. And, knowing that he worked on the hall with his own hands gave Farkas a good dose of pride. He was a part of Jorrvaskr's history. He had a right to be here and call it home.

"Is this really the same ship that Jeek brought when he found the Skyforge?" Lucia asked.

"Mm-hmm. The Jorrvaskr."

"But, the Companions have been patching it up for hundreds of years, right?"

"Yes."

"So, if all this wood's replaced older wood, how do we know it's still the Jorrvaskr?"

Farkas shrugged. "Because we say it is."

Vilkas had a longer answer — something about history and memory, identity and time. He usually brought it out to impress pretty scholars who stopped at the Bannered Mare, on their way to Solitude or Winterhold. Farkas never could remember the whole thing, but he never missed his cues.

"My brother and I are the same flesh and blood," he'd say, interrupting at just the right moment. "Does that make us the same man?" Then, he'd lean in close, maybe pour some wine. "Why don't we test some theories?"

Farkas smirked, imagining what Bee would have said. "Terrible!" Ah, and what they would have done. If she had grown up here, she might have become a College girl, or another Divine acolyte. He would have enjoyed demonstrating what he knew of novices' uniforms.

"What are you thinking? You're smiling."

"Nothing, Lucia."

She snorted, unconvinced. Then, she asked, "Are you and Mama going to get married when she's killed Alduin?"

Farkas nearly hit his thumb.

He did his best to keep his voice even and light. "Probably not," he said.

"Uncle Vilkas, then?"

"More probably not," he blurted out. At Lucia's pout of disappointment, he sighed and offered her a smile. "Some Nords marry because of clans and land, or because they worship Mara and want to celebrate. We don't have a clan or land, and, uh, your uncle and I don't really visit the shrines. But, we don't really need to get married to make a family."

"Like we're family."

"Exactly." He couldn't help smiling at that. "You can just sign some papers that tell the Jarl: So-and-So is my mate, or my sister, or my child. It's in the law."

"That's what Kodlak did, too, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Should I be calling him Granda?"

Farkas chuckled. Then, he felt a slight pang. He didn't like remembering how old Kodlak was getting.

"Ask him next time he reads with you, then tell me what he says."

They were quiet again, and Farkas gratefully continued his work. But, from where he sat, he couldn't help glancing at the Wind District every now and then. The roof of the Apple-Bloom house needed repairs, too.

He'd help Bee out once she moved there, of course. And the next summer, too, perhaps. That was something he could look forward to. But, he stopped short of imagining himself living under the same roof.

He studied Lucia's face, Colovian features bronzed by the sun, but there was no fear there. She was simply glad that her uncle had gotten over his "swamp fever"; she was enjoying her perch overlooking the city and chattering to him as on any other day. Farkas only wanted more of these ordinary moments, but that felt next to impossible, for now. The close call at Breezehome had been too close.

"Even if you won't get married, can we have a party anyway? To celebrate?" the girl asked.

Farkas grinned. "Sure, Lucia. We can celebrate." 

"And will you and Mama make babies?"

He did hit his thumb then. " _Why_ are you — look, I've dropped the — "

"Lucia! What in nine names are you doing up there?!"

Bee was standing at the bottom of the front steps with a pair of guards.

"Hi, Mama!" Lucia called brightly. "I'm helping Uncle Farkas fix the roof. We're talking about babies."

Farkas made a strangled noise. He didn't blush often.

"I think you've helped enough for today," he grumbled. "Get that rope around your waist, and I'll lower you back down."

"But — "

"You rather I drop you?"

"Farkas!"

A grin spread across his face as he looked from mother to child. He belayed Lucia as she rappelled down the side of the ship. Bee quickly ran up the steps to meet the girl, and she held her by the shoulders for a quick inspection.

"You and your ideas," she scolded mildly. But, Farkas could see the color in her cheeks growing richer, too. "Is the Harbinger busy?" she called up. "I've got a letter from the Jarl."

"Oh, is the Companions' dry spell over?" Farkas slid down the hull and landed firmly on his feet. He caught a look of appreciation as Bee's eyes flitted over his arms and chest, and a satisfied warmth spread through him.

Then, she scrunched up her face in recollection. "You know, he never did say whether he would pay you. I should have asked."

He sighed. "Probably paying in favors, then. It's fine; it's better than nothing. I'll take you down to Kodlak. Vilkas is with him, too."

Lucia tugged on Bee's arm then. "Can I go play with Lars and Mila?"

Farkas held the door open for Bee. He exhaled in relief as Lucia ran off, disappearing from view. The guards shuffled uncertainly. By unspoken convention, they kept out of the Companions' premises, but they must have been under orders to mind the Dragonborn still. He simply nodded at them before closing the door.

"What did she want to know about babies?" Bee asked, brow raised.

"Whether we'd make any."

She choked and coughed, her heart suddenly quickening. Farkas laughed, pretending his own pulse hadn't begun to race, too. She began to walk more quickly and created a little distance between them.

"I think she's gotten jealous of Lars," she muttered. "He's getting a new sibling any day now, you know."

"I don't mind the making of babies myself," Farkas replied. "But, I'm not too eager for results at the moment."

Bee failed to curb her grin, and her cheeks glowed, but she didn't reply.

As they entered the living quarters, Farkas felt a mix of happiness and longing take hold. This was his home, and she was here, under his roof. Her scent would mingle with that of everything else — the snacks and tidbits Tilma left out in the lower mess, stale mead spilled in the dormitory, armor and sword oils, the musk of unwashed fighters, the ageing of books, worn leather, crushed lavender and pennyroyal on the stones with fresh straw. There was a rightness to her being here, in the heart of what made him who he was.

Something in him shook itself and began pacing eagerly, hungry for her closeness. Farkas didn't want her to ever leave.

"Is it an urgent letter?" he asked. "Want to see my room?"

Bee fought to contain her smile. "Isn't it a bit early in the day?"

"Tsk. You and your filthy mind!" he teased. "I only thought you'd like to see it." But, the idea of crawling into bed and smelling her among the pillows and pelts lodged itself in his mind. Perhaps later. Perhaps she could stay for lunch, then be convinced to take a quick nap, which he wouldn't let her take at all.

The door to the Harbinger's quarters at the end of the corridor was half open. They could both hear the murmur of voices beyond, but only Farkas could hear whole words at first. Vilkas was excited.

"We're getting close, Kodlak. I can feel it. If this letter fragment from Galiel the Gold is correct, it began with some Harbinger. We just need a name."

"Yes, but the records on past Harbingers are not as detailed as we'd like. Do you think it was before or after Kyrnil? The Long-Nose was the one who made the first Circle."

"You know, you could be on to something. It's possible the first Circle was to keep the blood from being given to just anyone."

"Hold on now. We're not alone."

Farkas gently pushed the door further open to let Bee in.

"Pardon us, Harbinger," he said. "Letter from the Jarl."

It warmed Farkas, how Kodlak smiled on seeing Bee. The old man accepted the folded sheet and grasped her arm in greeting, before opening the letter to read quickly. Laughing out loud, he then passed it to Vilkas.

"You're joking," Vilkas said, once he'd finished reading. "You want to train here, with us?"

Farkas's heart turned a somersault in surprise. This was even better. Bee here in the yard every day, sparring with the company like she was one of them, being part of his world —

His earlier thoughts of her staying grew blurred with the idea of crossing swords. _We'll fight her again._ He took a breath to steady himself. _On our own ground this time._

"If you would, please," she said. "The works at Dragonsreach are going to take a while, so I have time that needs spending wisely."

Kodlak gave a wide smile. "It would be our privilege, Dovahkiin. I quite enjoyed watching you at Castle Dour. It's likely you'll put us through our paces, too."

She ducked modestly, but she returned the smile.

"No," Vilkas said. "This is a bad idea." He dropped the letter onto the table. "We train with blunted blades, but injuries still happen. What if we make you bleed, and — " His eyes went to Farkas before he could stop them.

Farkas knew his brother could hear the hammering in his chest. _And what of it?_ the beast in him snarled.

"Aren't your hunts tied to the night?" Bee asked. "Won't we be safe?"

"Hmm." Kodlak ran a hand through his beard. "Yes, but our — _condition_ does get one carried away, if it isn't under control."

_Prey enters our den deliberately, looking for a test. We should give her one._

Farkas swallowed. It was a struggle to force back the creature in his mind.

Bee shrugged. "That won't be a problem for me." She suppressed a smirk, but there was a clear note of pride in her voice, and it only stoked Farkas's interest.

His brother protested still.

"Come on, Vilkas," she replied. "You know how it went in the woods the last time. I fought Alduin himself just a few days ago. You don't think I can take you?"

"It's true," Farkas said, mind clawing for focus, pulling on the memory of that night. He spoke as much to himself as to his brother. "She held back, with us. She can pull dragons out of the sky, Vilkas! Maybe it's _her_ control we should worry about."

Vilkas scoffed. "All right! If you put it that way, I'll worry about her control. I'll worry she'll hold back for our sake, instead of saving herself!"

The wolf Farkas harbored bristled at the memory. _So, we'll take her down. Take her down in another unfair fight. It'll be an even better win._

_You can smell the dragon, can't you?_ Farkas implored the beast. _Your eyes see some woman, but you know you smell a dragon in there. What's wrong with you?_

Haughty, stubborn was the response. _I crave the challenge._

"Would you like to hear another bad idea?"

Kodlak had spoken, and there was merciful silence, inside and out.

The Harbinger gestured at Vilkas. "You told me how much you wanted to be there at the Throat of the World," he began. "You were planning to submit yourself for her and Ulfric's strike force against Alduin."

"Is this true?" Farkas asked sharply. "You didn't tell me! I want in, too!"

Bee also looked surprised. His brother looked away. "I was going to tell you. Then, you went to be a wolf for three days — "

"He what?!" Bee cried.

" — and when we brought you back, the battle had already begun, up on the mountain. And now, because of what you've done, your impulses are worse than before."

Vilkas seemed to weigh his next words with preemptive regret, then looked Farkas right in the eyes. "I don't trust you. What's worse, I risk following after you."

It was like a lash to the face.

Farkas's mind clouded even further. Inside that red fog, the beast was snarling, indignant.

"Not too long ago, you were the one we couldn't trust," he hissed. He crossed the room to stand over his brother, to growl in his face. "When she fell out of that tree, you were the one who had to be stopped. And when she needed tracking, I tracked her down, while you stayed home in your fear! I've always been stronger than you. I've always been the strongest one!" He jabbed a finger at Vilkas's chest. "It doesn't matter if you trust me or follow me. You can't stop me."

His twin barely flinched. Vilkas only mirrored his fury and disdain.

"Farkas?"

Her voice was small, shocked. Searching. Where was he just now?

"You've just proved my point," Vilkas said quietly, shaking his head.

Farkas snarled aloud in frustration. His hands balled into fists; his face began to burn. He stepped back and forced himself to breathe.

"May I continue?" Kodlak said.

Guilt again, sweeping over Farkas like a wave.

The Harbinger sighed and rubbed his temples with one hand over his brow. He looked at Bee.

"When they were about seven, your mother told me to have them exposed to the red pox. One of the Gray-Mane lads had it, so we made sure they caught it from him."

"Avulstein," Vilkas recalled. "I hated those rashes."

Kodlak nodded. "Perhaps what they need is something like that with you. You spending time here, training with them — perhaps some extended exposure is the answer."

Vilkas quickly shook his head again. "No, Harbinger. Look at him. Indulging his beast is what's made him this way. That's just going to make things worse."

"Or, it could make things better," Kodlak pressed. "The young ones who aren't in the Circle — you're not driven to tear them apart in the yard. Or the little one, Lucia."

"She smells like Tilma's sweetrolls," Farkas mumbled.

Kodlak smiled faintly. "She's been around long enough to seem like one of ours. You were already inclined to see her as one of yours, even before the adoption." He gestured at Bee. "Perhaps that's what you need with your sweetheart here. Perhaps she simply needs to be less of a rarity; then, she'd be less of a temptation."

"No, this will be like locking Torvar in a wine cellar," Vilkas persisted. "This is madness, Harbinger!"

Bee laughed. "I need to get down and roll in their stuff, get their smells on me, is that it?"

"I doubt they'd complain about some rolling around," Kodlak replied, smile widening into a grin.

The brothers groaned, annoyed, and Bee let out a, "Careful, old man."

The Harbinger held up his hands placatingly. "How much time do you have?" he then asked. "What are these works at Dragonsreach you mentioned?"

"Ah. Those." She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. "We can talk about them later. But, say I have a week, at least. Is this your answer?"

Kodlak shrugged. "Even if we could deny the Jarl — and we have, on occasion — no one can deny you, Dovahkiin. Not in the almost-end of days. Not if you say our training is what you need."

"Why can't you train with the soldiers?" Vilkas put in.

She chuckled at the suggestion. "I can if I want, even now, but Balgruuf said I should train with the best in the hold. Are you saying that's not you?"

Vilkas scowled, eyes narrowing at Bee's impudence. "What do you mean, 'even now'?"

Her teasing look turned sheepish then. "Once the mail reaches Tullius's desk," she said, "I'll no longer be a soldier. I've finally, properly resigned."

Kodlak turned triumphant, but he waited while cries of surprise shook his study.

"When the time comes," Bee continued, "they'll send soldiers with me anyhow, since the Alduin business is everyone's business. But, I should have leeway to take some worthy mercenaries along if I want."

The Harbinger looked pointedly at the brothers then. "Think on this now, lads," he said. "If you can't train with her, how can you even hope to fight with her?"

Farkas swallowed.

"Suppose Alduin isn't here in Skyrim, but across the borders in Morrowind, or Hammerfell," Kodlak went on, "or even just the Reach. You'd have to be together, day and night. You'd have to behave yourselves amongst the soldiers they're sending with her, and Ulfric Stormcloak himself. Wild animals and unfriendly locals, as well as dragons, will cross your paths. And what if, for some reason, you're unable to slip away to hunt and sate your beasts?"

Vilkas shook his head, but his own frustration was clear. He had more control than Farkas now, it was true, but who knew if it was enough?

"A week with her might be enough, or it might prove too much, and your hunger, beyond help. But, if you can't test one another in the safety of the yard, minded by the pack, I guarantee you will be more burden than aid to her in the field," Kodlak said.

"And, by Ysmir," he added, "it would make me proud to know you're with her in the field. To help take down the World-Eater — it would be the most glorious deed by any Companions since — "

"Since you and Skjor, with the orcs?" Farkas said, brow raised.

"Ah. Well." Kodlak feigned a modest tip of the head, beard barely hiding his grin.

His words had softened everyone in the room. Even Farkas's wolf had settled a bit at the voice of their forebear.

_What am I going to do without you, Kodlak?_

His chest tightened, but he felt a new determination take root. When he met his brother's eyes, he saw it there, too. They had to try.

"Again to you now, Dovahkiin," Kodlak said then. "You brought my lads into your family. It's well past time we brought you into ours. Or, are you waiting for your General Tullius to try and win you back?"

"Sir?"

The Harbinger snorted. "We'll have to shake that habit out of you," he muttered. "I'm saying, if you're going to train with us, Miel, then train as one of us. Be a Companion."

Her mouth fell open, and Farkas felt his heart somersault.

"You're not truly considering — " Vilkas began.

Kodlak waved his hand, his eyes not leaving Bee's face. "Oh, we'll still test you. But to be honest, I can't think of a trial greater than the one you had on the mountain, nor the one you'll have ahead. And, formalizing your membership might better press these two to cool their blood. You'd be as close to the pack as you can get without sharing the curse."

"Say yes," Farkas blurted out. "Please." Inside him, the wolf turned restlessly, struggling with the agonizing possibility. She would be even closer than before, and the consequences of hurting her would be even worse. This was what he needed, and Vilkas was wrong.

A smile began to dance at the corner of her lips, yet Bee said nothing.

Kodlak sighed. He ran a heavy hand through his beard, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "Sometimes, they come to us seeking their fame. Sometimes, the famous come to us. Must I tout our company to you, Miel Guillaume?" He spread his hands outward. "The brotherhood and sisterhood of stalwart fighters. The best trainers in Skyrim, I'd wager. Skyforge steel on your hip. Meat and mead for your belly. Not that you need it, but we'll share in it. And, of course, all of Jorrvaskr would be open to you and yours — as if it isn't already. We'd be honored to have you."

There was an impatient rumble in Farkas's throat. Honored couldn't begin to describe what he was feeling.

"It feels a bit sudden," she finally said. "I mean, I resigned only this morning."

But, Farkas could tell by the light in her eyes that she'd be theirs by the end of the week. She'd bear their steel and share their cups, and he'd be calling her —

Shield-wife.

Nobody at Jorrvaskr had called anyone that since Uftheg and Saruse, when the twins were still very small. The very idea felt better than whatever he and Lucia had been talking about on the keel of the ship. It felt right.

"If you wish to think about it, Dovahkiin, you can start training with Skjor this afternoon," Kodlak said then. "Show your fellow veteran how today's legionnaires move; rattle his stones a bit. You can start with our master at arms here tomorrow."

Bee smiled then. "I'll accept that much, and I'll consider the rest," she said. Then, she and the Harbinger grasped one another at the elbow.

Farkas saw his brother's brow twitch as his mind grappled with the very near and very possible future. Vilkas was fighting, fighting to find something wrong with Kodlak's suggestions, fighting to simply accept them, fighting his own tendency to pick it all apart. And, Farkas sensed with satisfaction, he was losing on all fronts.

Kodlak sighed and pulled himself to his feet with a worn glance at the pile of books and parchment. "I've been sitting down here long enough, lass. Would you like to join us for lunch, up on the porch?"

_Yes_.

"Tell me, what other news from Dragonsreach?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something something arrow something knee.
> 
> One of the reasons it's been a while (besides actual life stuff to deal with) was my struggle to resolve the twins' classic [horror hunger](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HorrorHunger). I didn't want to resort to an angsty, "I'm not safe! Get away from me! I'm a monster who should be alone!" moment. But since I'd established many months and chapters ago that Miel is [supernaturally delicious and nutritious](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/SupernaturallyDeliciousAndNutritious), the characters need to deal with it, so I'm trying to write something that makes sense for them.
> 
> Modern science doesn't recommend exposing kids to diseases for inoculation, btw, but the characters' world doesn't exactly have vaccines. The exposure idea described here is in no way an endorsement of chicken pox parties and the like. Get vaccinated!


End file.
